


Better to Face the Bullets

by ishtarelisheba



Series: Better to Face the Bullets 'verse [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Blood, Electroconvulsive Therapy, F/M, Force-Feeding, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Medical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Shell Shock, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Wartime Violence, World War I, hospital au, non-show character death, surgical procedure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-28 11:05:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 150
Words: 545,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2730107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishtarelisheba/pseuds/ishtarelisheba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fighter pilot for Britain in WWI, Captain Rummond Gold suffers from acute shell shock. Labeled a coward, he's put through a trial for the crime of cowardice... and loses everything. After an episode that leaves him near unable to function, he admits to himself to a military hospital for shell shocked servicemen, where he encounters a certain young nurse who refuses to allow his deteriorated condition (or the reputation he's acquiring with staff and patients alike) to scare her away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Admittal

The hospital was a great, hulking thing, intimidating, made of dark stone and peppered with unlit windows. Not inviting in the least. But it was a fine hospital for servicemen, he’d heard tell. His father was paying for it, though not without a serving of snideness alongside. It was the same way Malcolm Gold did anything for his son, including pulling every string he had to keep Rummond ‘officially’ in the Royal Flying Corps and out of a twenty-five year hard labor sentence or worse - with a derisive sneer and an air of ‘you owe me’ that made his son feel a half inch tall. Business as usual.

He hadn’t even the willpower to pick up his side of the fight that Malcolm laid down. A forty-four year old man cowed by his father; wasn’t that something? It wasn’t even a matter of holding his tongue. He simply didn’t have the energy or desire to defend himself in the midst of the hell that had descended on him.

He hefted his kitbag higher on his shoulder and pushed himself to take another step toward the door. Then another. And another. Until he stepped inside. The place smelled of carbolic acid and tobacco smoke; it made him crave to pull the cigarette case from his jacket pocket. He resisted mid-reach, remembering how they somehow managed to make his episodes just that much worse, and clenched his hand into a fist when he saw how it shook, dropping it back to his side.

“Here to be admitted,” he said quietly to the nurse behind the front desk. She was tall and blonde, fussing with a stack of files when he walked up. Without missing a beat, she slid a piece of paper and a pencil onto the counter in front of him.

“Fill out everything you can, even if it’s only your name. The doctor can take care of the rest,” she said, turning away to her filing again.

“Well, I can-” he began, but shook his head and commenced with filling out the information instead. It didn’t matter whether she believed he could read and write or not. Being here was the achievement, he supposed, if one could call it that. It took near an act of God to get himself out of the flat at all these days, much less dragging his pathetic carcass all the way here.

Leaning on the counter, hunkered over the paperwork, he could hear footsteps coming from the left side hallway. Two sets, and he could tell that they belonged to women before they grew close enough that he could hear them talking quietly between themselves. He tried to keep his back to them, to ignore the way the hair on the back of his neck rose at having someone behind him, but he was _compelled_ to stop in the middle of filling out his date of birth and look over his shoulder enough to see who was approaching. They didn’t look his way, only continued past the desk and through to the opposite corridor. He frowned at himself and went back to the form.

The intake process went more quickly than he thought it would. The blonde nurse, as efficient as she was brusque, had a file made for him and an orderly called out to fetch him in so fast that he hardly had time to prepare himself.

He was solemn as he followed the orderly. He was here to get better - that was the goal - but it felt like a prison sentence in itself.

The orderly, a scruffy-faced boy likely half his age, led him to a room off the hall just down from the main entrance. “You can change here,” the man said, handing a hospital gown down to him from a cupboard. “We’ll be keeping your clothes until you check out.”

Rummond took the loose, long-sleeved gown and stepped behind the screen, draping it over the top until he could undress. 

“You’ll take care of this? All of it, but… particularly the jacket?” he asked, placing it on the metal table next to him, and rested a hand on the age-softened leather, touching the lambswool collar before moving to start on his waistcoat. He reached for his pocketwatch before remembering he’d left it hidden with his father’s butler for safekeeping. He hoped his father wouldn’t find it - it would be sold for the spite of it, if he did.

“Yes, sir,” the orderly reassured. “They go into storage with your name on the label. It’s a task I perform myself.”

“Good, good,” Rummond nodded. He hadn’t much in the way of prized belongings, but his flight jacket was one he’d worked hard to earn. 

Even if he didn’t deserve the honor now.

He worked through his layers slowly. Cotton pique waistcoat, tie, button-down, undershirt. The closer to his skin he got, the more he felt that he might fly apart. By the time he got to his trouser buttons, his hands shook so that it took him three tries.

To the orderly’s credit, he didn’t snipe or hurry. The young man waited quietly on the other side.

When Rummond was finally into the hospital gown, he felt _exposed_ , and the cold floor made his tremors all the worse. It didn’t help his limp much, either. Oh, _hell_. He looked down. The gown was just short enough that the scars at his lower leg could be seen. If he’d considered that, he might have just stayed in his flat to starve to death.

He came out from behind the screen, struggling to button the gown’s collar. Thankfully, the orderly’s back was turned, and he only looked after his charge stepped back into his peripheral vision. The Irishman had warm eyes and a gentle manner, and something trustworthy about his smile.

With a quick assessment practiced in its subtlety, not lingering on Rummond’s shaking or scars, the orderly offered, “If you need help? A cane, a wheelchair-”

“I’ve need of neither, thank you _very_ much,” Rummond snapped despite himself. The man was attempting to be kind to him, but even now he couldn’t tolerate the insinuation that he was helpless. 

“You can leave your clothes there. I’ll be back by to pick them up. No one’ll bother them. Have you slippers? There are hospital issue, if not,” the orderly continued, and Rummond was surprised when his tone remained calm. That wouldn’t last long, of course. As his father had told him as far back as he could remember, he was never a lad of many talents, but he could provoke anyone to anger. It was only a matter of time.

“I have a pair,” Rummond nodded, gesturing to his kitbag where it propped by the door.

“Make sure you get them on your feet soon. Don’t want to be walking these floors with naked feet.” The orderly smiled again, clearly trying to set him at ease. It was a nice gesture, but it didn’t accomplish what it was meant to. “You can call me Graham or Humbert, however you’re comfortable addressing. I’m here every day save Sunday, so you’ll be seeing a good deal of me. I’ll also be looking into your bag before you get it back. Have to check for contraband,” he said apologetically. “So you’d best fetch out anything you need immediately right here.”

Rummond hesitated, but crossed to the door and picked up his bag, setting its end on a chair. He pulled open the drawstring and took out the old pair of bedroom slippers tucked down the side. “Can I keep my wallet with me?” he asked without looking back at the orderly. It was easier to think of him by his job than by his name yet.

“Not just now. You’ll get it back,” the orderly promised.

There was one thing he couldn’t leave. He slid a battered photograph from behind a few pound notes and put the leather fold back into his bag.

“If you’ve cigarettes, you can keep them. Medications have to go through your doctor.” The orderly watched as he set his kitbag to rights and pulled the string tight again. “All done, then?”

Rummond nodded sharply. He considered keeping his cigarette case, but left it in his clothing to remove the temptation. 

The orderly opened the door into the cold hallway again and waited until Rummond had gone through before following. “Let’s get you assigned to a bed.”

The smell of carbolic diminished when the man pushed the ward doors open, but the scent of tobacco persisted strongly. The ward was a large room with little privacy, Union Flags hanging from the ceiling, and wrought iron support posts down the middle of the room. There were perhaps three dozen crisply-made beds in four rows: one along the left and right walls, and two back-to-back in the center. Each bed had its own footlocker and a metal bedside table to separate it from the one next to it. Though it was indeed an impressive room, the number of patients didn’t seem as great as he’d gotten an impression, hearing of it.

As if reading his mind, the orderly said, “You’ll be here in the east ward. Strictly shell shock patients. The other wards house patients suffering other injuries. Wounds, burns, and so forth.”

 _‘Other injuries’_? Rummond frowned. Had the orderly in all seriousness just called shell shock an injury? He was unaware cowardice could even be treated in a hospital, before the war, and here they called it an injury. He had his doubts.


	2. Firefly Hill War Hospital

“Well, well, well, it seems we have an _ace_ on our roster,” Nurse Mills sneered. She handed copies of the updated list out to her gaggle of east wing nurses.

Belle was late. She was never late, but this morning she’d been waylaid by her father and Donat regarding the menu for the party. It could have waited until later; the party was still two months away, for heaven’s sake. She hurried into the Head Nurse’s office, pinning her cap to her hair, just as her superior was looking down upon another new patient. It grated on Belle’s nerves, but she couldn’t say a word about it. She did want to keep her job.

She received a glare from the woman herself just as the others were headed for the door, on the way to do their rounds. “Nice to see you’ve decided to come to work today, after all, French,” Nurse Mills said, thrusting a piece of paper at her.

Belle took it and hurried off again before the head nurse could pin her down for a scolding. She caught up with Ruby and Mary Margaret only because they’d paused in the hallway before the east supply closet door. Ruby was regaling the smaller nurse with a tale of some sort.

“My Granny keeps up with them all,” Ruby said, nodding quickly. “When they’re active, anyway. He was a flying ace. Seventeen aerial victories, before he…” Ruby twirled a finger next to her temple.

Belle set her handbag down hard on the chart table, interrupting to give both of them a disapproving look. Mary Margaret had the decency to look sheepish. “I should- I need to- gauze!” she said before disappearing into the supply closet.

Ruby wasn’t so easily shamed. “Granny once said she’d put money on him being the one to kill the Baron. Didn’t quite turn out that way,” she whispered, leaning in as if she were being conspiratorial.

“Ruby...” Belle frowned at her friend. “Don’t you have rounds to get to?”

The taller woman shrugged and moved toward the ward doors with a definite sashay to her walk. Belle shook her head. Apparently the new man on the roster had a bit of a reputation. It had been a few weeks since they’d gotten a new patient, and her interest was piqued more by that than by Ruby’s remarks. She ran her finger down the list until she found the unfamiliar name, then picked the chart from the stack on the table, opening it to see whether ‘shell shock (wound)’ or ‘shell shock (sick)’ was notated inside. Rummond Gold was listed as ‘sick.’ She frowned, knowing he would be looked down upon with that label on his chart, even by some of the other men on the ward. It was meant to be private, of course, but it always got around somehow, and she had her suspicion regarding whose lips were loose.

She took her purse - a fussy thing that her fiancé brought back to her from his last trip to Paris - and stepped into the supply closet, placing it on the high shelf where the few other nurses who had one left theirs. Mary Margaret smiled a bit too brightly at her before scuttling out with her roll of gauze.

Quietly, tucking the folded list into her apron pocket, Belle entered the ward. She knew where the empty beds were, and it was easy to spot the one that had been recently occupied. Right center row, fourth bed. The new patient sat on the side of it, curled in on himself, and Nurse Mills stood over him. Belle’s superior was busily seething at him for something, one hand held out flat with the other index finger stabbing at it. His reaction seemed to be feeding the head of steam she was building.

Belle heard a soft growl from beside her and looked up to find her best friend standing in the concave space next to the door. She was standing almost shoulder to elbow with him and hadn’t known it, the sneaky thing.

“Faced with Regina before he’s even had a decent meal,” Graham said quietly with a shake of his head. 

She flickered an uncomfortable smile at him. Graham was the only person she knew to call Nurse Mills by her given name. 

He watched over the men in the east ward as if they were his pups. She knew how he hated to see Nurse Mills descend upon them to vent some new perceived slight. And the shape most men arrived in, lain low by a condition that so many in the medical field still claimed was nothing more than malingering, it was rare that any stood up to her. She chose her victims well.

Had it been _anyone_ else treating patients so, he’d have gone in with teeth and claws, but Graham stayed well out of Nurse Mills’ path. Something had happened between the orderly and head nurse before Belle found a position at the hospital, and there wasn’t so much as a dangling thread of gossip about it. Something so bad that even the rumor mill wouldn’t grind, she didn’t want to ask questions after. Belle often wondered why he still worked here, if there was something that bad between them; surely there were other hospitals that would be glad to have him. But then she’d witness how he looked after the men, and she was reminded precisely why.

“Poor love,” she sighed. Her heart ached for the new patient, as it did for every serviceman who came through the doors in worse-for-the-wear condition.

“She certainly knows how to home in on the vulnerable ones.” Graham scowled. 

“You did his intake. What are we dealing with?” she asked without taking her eyes off the patient’s small form.

“He’s got a mouth on him. Defensive. Damaged.”

Belle smiled softly up at Graham. “Most of them are.”

He nodded. “He’s got himself a limp. Some heavy scarring on his right ankle seems to be the source. Doesn’t like attention drawn to it.”

“I’ll remember that. Thank you.”

Nurse Mills straightened her posture from the bird of prey stance she’d taken over the patient, but she didn’t appear ready to stop her invective just yet. A shrill portion of a sentence carried across the room to them. “-won’t, _if_ you’re legitimately ill!”

Graham downright snarled, gritting out, “Someone should distract her, get her off him, at least.”

“Why, thank you for volunteering,” Belle said, tugging on the sleeve of his uniform to urge him on.

He pulled a face, but nodded again. “What’ll do it, do you think?”

“She’s been fretting over the inspection.”

The orderly turned and slipped back out the ward doors, making sure the words, “Inspection,” and “Tomorrow,” made it very clearly through before they closed.

She breathed a sigh of relief when Nurse Mills turned a stricken expression that way and abandoned her quarry immediately. Belle hurried over to see if she could undo the man’s first impression of the hospital.

He sat up a bit as the head nurse left, but Belle's original observation remained true. He was small, not _that_ much larger than she herself, and far too thin. She had the impulse to look at the scars Graham mentioned, but she resisted. He regarded her with wide brown eyes when she approached the end of the bed, remaining there to leave him room to breathe. 

“Captain Gold,” she addressed him with what she hoped was a comforting smile.


	3. The Man Who Wasn't There

His nerves still hummed from the unexpected dropping of the head nurse’s tirade upon him, on top of dealing with being overwhelmed by simple virtue of being there. Rummond looked up to see a younger nurse hovering nearby, closer to the foot of his bunk than to him. He couldn’t blame her for not wanting to get closer.

“Captain Gold,” the young nurse called him, and it was the first time in months he’d heard his rank and name spoken together without a tone of mocking behind it.

She wore the usual nurse’s uniform - her dark auburn hair twisted back into a neat chignon below her crisp white nurse’s cap, blue dress and white pinafore, a lapel watch pinned near one shoulder. The bow design that hid the pin was enameled bright blue, just the color of her eyes, making them sparkle all the more, and tiny red roses were painted in the loops. It was a pretty thing, undoubtedly expensive. He placed the watchmaker within moments, then silently berated himself for looking at the watch with the pawnbroker’s eye that his father had ground into him as a boy. 

This nurse appeared professional, but not cold. It was a small comfort. She didn’t _look_ as though she were going to launch into him the way the other had, either. Then she smiled, and something in his stomach fluttered. He hadn’t known anything other than fear and misery in so long, the feeling unsettled him. 

Rummond had a passing thought that she looked like life itself. But that was a bit mad, wasn’t it? Par for the course.

He nodded before he managed to speak. “Aye, ma’am, that would be me.”

“I’m Nurse French,” she introduced herself. “Are you getting settled in?” She turned the chart in her hand and ran her thumbnail over the corner, making the pages _pip-pip-pip-pip-pip_ as they popped from beneath the edge.

He felt the weight that pressed down on him from the head nurse’s visit grow a little lighter. “As settled as can be, I suppose.”

Her smile changed subtly, moving from polite and perfunctory to reassuring as she informed him of the order of things. “You won’t be started on medications until you see your doctor, and you won’t see him until tomorrow. If you need something to help you sleep tonight, one of the orderlies or I can provide a cup of tea. A fair few of the men have tea, anyway, along with their sedatives.”

Mention of doctors and medication caused him to close off again. It was what he’d come here for, of course, but the thought derailed him from even his meager attempt at conversation and the prospect of dealing with it made his stomach twist nauseatingly.

He moved farther back onto the thin mattress, pulling the covers from underneath him. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“Have you met your bunkmates? It’s what the men have come to call the fellows on either side of them,” she explained, nodding toward the beds.

He followed her gesture. To his left, a man with dark, wild hair and a scar that seemed to ring his throat sat up in bed, appearing absorbed completely in a book until he raised a hand to give a waggle-fingered wave without glancing up. The man to his right sat on the opposite edge of the bed, whittling something from a small block of soft wood. Rummond shook his head. “Perhaps later.”

After a moment of quiet, Nurse French spoke again, carefully. “If you don’t mind me asking… What was it that Nurse Mills was going on about? Is there something I might do to help?”

“No, no.” He shook his head, looking up without quite looking her in the face. The rest of the ward had likely gotten the gist; his only surprise was that this girl hadn’t, as well. “There were a couple of jackknives in the bottom of my kitbag. I neglected to empty it before packing up for… here.” There was also a crumbled bar of soap, a handful of Oxo cubes, and at least one boot brush. But it was the knives he’d forgotten about.

“I’m sorry if Nurse Mills-” the young nurse began, but she was drowned out.

On the far end of the room, there was an enraged yell and something was dropped or thrown - likely a bedpan or a wash basin, from the sound of it. It crashed against the tile, clattering and echoing, and raised up a fuss from half of the men on the ward in one way or another. Rummond cringed involuntarily, his heart suddenly pounding and a flash of panic shooting through him, the headache he thought he’d seen the back side of this morning reintroducing itself. He looked up at the nurse when she took a step toward him, and to his dismay, the boy - blonde and blue-eyed, with his pointed cap and white bag strap across his chest - stood right next to her in full uniform. He stared back at Rummond with one eye, blood matting his hair and staining the front of his tunic.

He blanched, eyes darting between the nurse and the boy.

“Captain Gold?” the young nurse asked, reacting to the expression that overtook his face. He didn’t respond - didn’t hear her, really - and she took another slow step toward him.

He knew the boy wasn’t there. He _knew_ it. That didn’t have any effect on the fact that _he could see him_. Once he’d been a champion at pulling a mask up over doubts, hopping into the cockpit despite fear or odds to buoy up his boys. But something in him had changed, cracked, and he couldn’t force himself to not react to what was right in front of him.

The nurse’s eyebrows drew together, and she took a step to the side, placing herself directly in front of the boy. “Captain Gold,” she said again, kindly but insistently, and let her arms rest by her sides. The boy lingered just beyond her.

Rummond turned slowly away from the nurse, sliding his legs beneath the knit blanket, and turned his back on both of them as he curled up into as small a space as he could manage.


	4. And the Evening and the Morning

He expected nothing less than sleeplessness on that first night. After all, he hadn’t been able to sleep even in his own bed. A strange bunk, and in a hospital no less, could be no better. He resisted tossing and turning, remaining curled up tight as the other patients rustled in getting ready to sleep, and nurses came ’round to turn out the lights.

The man with the scar on his throat - it didn’t extend _all_ the way around, he’d discovered, but that made it no less disturbing an injury - had introduced himself as Lieutenant Jefferson Hargreaves once he’d finished his chapter, reaching across to shake Rummond’s hand. Just now, the man was sleeping, and quite loudly. To say that he snored would have been one of the greater understatements of history. It wasn’t until a night nurse came by to have him turn onto his side that the noise softened. The man on the other side stayed up late into the night, carving what appeared to be a donkey by candlelight. He still hadn’t gotten the whittler’s name. Rummond had traded hardly a dozen words with either of them, but neither seemed objectionable. At least they didn’t seem to take too much interest in his presence thus far.

Rummond worried at the top edge of the bedsheet, rubbing it between his fingers, trying to take himself out of his thoughts by way of concentrating on the texture. Everything, inside and out, combined to bewilder him. He was too aware of his breathing, blinking, his very heartbeat. He could hear the groan of the window frames in the wind, the creak of the metal bed frames every time someone shifted position, the soft tap of the nurses’ shoes as they did their hourly walks of the ward.

He was unsure at what point in the night he fell asleep. Last he remembered, the whittler had re-lit his candle and picked up his short knife again. (It was not lost on him that a whittling knife was allowed on the ward, but he’d been condemned for inadvertently bringing in pocket knives.) His bit of sleep didn’t last long, but it was enough to allow dreams.

He found himself in Germany, in the muck just beyond the edge of a wood they’d gone into for cover. His boys were following him, exhausted and hungry and banged up from head to toe, but alive. They walked for an eternity, it seemed, until there was a deafening _boom_ and a wall of dirt, followed by screams and the feeling of his body being beyond his control. When the dust cleared, he was surrounded by bodies, including those of his boys, and his uniform sleeves were soaked to the elbow in blood… 

He sat bolt upright, his breath coming so fast that it left him before it could do any good in his lungs. His chest hurt, his heart pounded so hard, and he felt as if he’d crawl out of his skin. That _wasn’t_ the way it happened, but it was near enough to the truth that he had a distinct urge to retreat into the space beneath the bed instead of spending the rest of the night in it.

Jefferson leaned up on an elbow, looking at him in concern, but said nothing. He wondered if perhaps he’d made noise, since the other man had wakened. After a few moments that seemed uneventful from an outside perspective, Jefferson laid down again and turned over.

Rummond pulled the blanket up high on his chest, wrapping his arms around himself. He deserved it, every moment of torment. The nightmares, the pain, whatever it was that had twisted in his head. He deserved every bit of it.

With the morning came his first meeting with Dr. Hopper. Archibald Hopper’s reputation as a doctor of the talking cure was the chief reason that Firefly Hill War Hospital was on the map for treatment of shell shock. Dr. Whale’s reputation wasn’t quite as sparkling, but Rummond didn’t have to meet the medical doctor until day after next. He was glad of the schedule spreading his appointments out - it gave him time to recover between. 

The orderly who had performed his intake guided him to Dr. Hopper’s office. “I’ll be back to return you to the ward when you come out,” Humbert told him, knocking on the office door and waiting for the doctor’s word before pushing it open.

“I assure you, I can find my own way back,” Rummond told him shortly. 

The orderly nodded, but Rummond had the feeling that his guide would be waiting in the corridor once the hour was up, anyway.

Hopper’s office wasn’t what he expected. Though, he wasn’t sure _what_ to expect; he’d never been in a psychologist’s office before. He had vague ideas about it being as sterile and white as his doctor’s examination room was back in Glasgow. It was the very opposite, with carpets and warm, dark wood, a blue sofa on one wall, and matching chairs across from the doctor’s desk. There was a very neatly kept bookcase in one corner, and paintings of nature scenes on the walls - forests, bodies of water, mountains. Rummond felt his nerves ratchet down a little as he looked around.

Apparently it wasn’t enough. He sat himself in one of the admittedly quite comfortable upholstered chairs and promptly shut down.

Dr. Hopper asked general questions to start off. Rummond could answer few of them. He _wanted_ to. He wanted to help the doctor to help him, but making those words - the complaints and admittances that revealed all of his failings that had allowed this to come to pass - come out seemed somehow beyond him.

“You admitted _yourself_ here, Captain Gold,” the ginger-haired man on the other side of the desk observed quietly. “No one forced you.”

Rummond, for his part, sat obediently in the same place he’d taken a half an hour ago. He stared at the small orchestra of cricket whatnots arranged on the righthand corner of his side of the desk. “I’m aware.”

“But you seem a bit reluctant to talk,” the doctor pressed on.

Rummond shrugged one shoulder in a nervous gesture.

“Why did you come here?” Dr. Hopper asked, his question not accusing or impatient, but a simple question.

And it _was_ a simple enough question, but Rummond hesitated, his fidgeting growing more intense. He pushed himself until he could get words out. “Because I need to be here. To become well.”

“Yes…” the doctor said. It was the longest string of words that his patient had given him.

Rummond squirmed a bit, his subsequent confession feeling as though it came at the cost of what little dignity he still held onto. “I don’t want to die.”

Dr. Hopper sat up straighter, pushing wire-rimmed spectacles higher on his nose. It was the first truly telling thing that his new patient had said since coming into his office. “That’s a common enough reason to seek treatment for illness and injury.”

“You didn’t allow me to finish,” Rummon murmured, swallowing hard over the lump of self-loathing and guilt in his throat.

The doctor nodded, inclining his head to encourage his patient. 

Rummond continued, though so softly that the doctor tilted his head farther to hear. “I don’t want to die. But the way things are… I’m _weary_ of this. Of living,” he said, bemused, himself. “Weary of suffering it. There’s no point to it.”

Dr. Hopper frowned in sympathy. So many men had he seen come through his office this way. Some exhausted, like Captain Gold. Some who had to be carefully watched until they could be trusted to not make attempts on their own lives. He didn’t think that the Captain was one of the latter, but a private word with the nurses assigned to his section of the ward wouldn’t go amiss. 

“That’s understandable,” he acknowledged, knowing there was something further there going unsaid. “Shell shock is a difficult ailment to live with, particularly with symptoms at the levels you report.”

Captain Gold simply looked at the doctor’s desk. This one would be difficult - Hopper could see it already. But he could also see that there were chinks in the man’s armor that he might eventually be able to get to him through. Their time, however, was almost up.

“How are you doing on the ward?” Dr. Hopper asked, changing tactics from probing to talk that he hoped was a bit smaller. “As comfortable as possible? You have everything that you need?”

“Everything I can get.” Rummond huffed a short, humorless breath of a laugh through his nose. “Food and a roof. Enough to survive.”

Yes, there _was_ more there, but it could wait until his patient didn’t have such a deathgrip on the vault door it was hidden behind. “I think perhaps we can end our session for today. I shall look forward to seeing you tomorrow afternoon, Captain Gold.”

His patient left the office quietly and slowly and without another word.


	5. Bolt-hole

“I don’t _want_ it.”

“Listen here, I don’t care if you leave it by til trays are picked up or you chuck it under the bed, but this here is yours and it’s staying with you.”

At the tone in the orderly’s voice, Belle turned to look. She’d been fussing with a couple of pulled stitches in Lieutenant Tillman’s side when it began, and she was keeping her ears open just in case things escalated. Which was not unheard of when Quinn Lowell was on shift. He tended to jab at nerves.

Today, it was Captain Gold he was butting heads with. “You’ll take it away, or so help me,” her patient said, his voice quiet with an anger she had yet to hear in it.

“It’s not unheard of for patients who won’t eat to be _force_ fed,” Quinn snarled back at him.

Upon hearing the threat, Belle finished tying off the bandage around Tillman’s torso and marched over, interrupting before it could go too far. The turn to Captain Gold’s mouth looked as if he might be sick at any moment, if the orderly continued shoving the tray under his nose.

She brushed her hands on the hips of her apron. “I think that’s quite enough.”

“I agree,” Quinn said smugly, letting the heavy tin serving tray drop the last six inches to the bed with a clatter and a slosh of milk.

“I am addressing _you_ , Mr. Lowell.” She saw relief in her patient’s face when he saw that he wasn’t being sided against. “Why don’t you pass the tray along? I believe Captain Gold will be fine.”

Quinn snorted. “You’re meant to be reporting patients who don’t eat, and if something happens on your watch-”

“I keep eyes on my patients; I know who eats and who doesn’t,” she assured him shortly. “I haven’t had a patient of mine perish of starvation yet. This is not your concern. _Your_ business is delivering food, is it not?”

Captain Gold took the moment and the reminder of the orderly’s position to take the tray from the bed, handing it back to him. “Take it back. I don’t want it,” he repeated.

Quinn didn’t put his hands on the tray again until Gold pushed it at him. He gripped the edges and pushed back. “You’ll eat it or you’ll wear it, _‘Captain,’”_ Quinn said snidely.

Graham was out in the hallway, talking with Dr. Hopper - she’d seen them on her way in, and she could still hear the pair of voices muffled beyond the doors. She wanted to call for her friend, but to call for help in such a seemingly simple altercation would be like announcing a weakness to Quinn, and everything happened so quickly, even as she was debating herself about it.

There was another trade of pushing at the breakfast tray, and Belle put her hands on it, too, saying, “Just leave him, Lowell!”

“He’ll eat it or I’ll-”

Gold stopped pushing and simply tilted the tray up, tipping it forcefully into the orderly’s chest, covering the front of his uniform in egg yolk and beans. One triangle of toast stuck to the mess, but the sausage hit the floor, bouncing off beneath the bed. Gold’s upper lip curled in defiant triumph. “Who’s wearing it now?” he spat.

“Bloody fucking bastard!” Quinn snarled, and he lunged at the Captain.

Belle, despite her better judgement, placed herself right between. Quinn didn’t slow down. Belle was half knocked over, turning the heel of her shoe, and she felt a hand wrap around her arm - it caught her, steadying her, so that she wasn’t thrown to the floor.

“Mr. Lowell! _Mr. Lowell!_ ” Belle near shrieked in her desperation to make him stop, seeing Quinn’s hands claw for purchase on her patient’s robe.

Quinn was suddenly pulled backward, and it took Belle a moment to realize that it was Graham who was hauling the orderly away by the back of the collar.

“You’re done for the day, I think,” Graham said, voice low and hard and brooking no argument, and Quinn’s mouth finally clapped shut. “How about I just see you out.”

Belle watched as Graham frog-marched Quinn off the ward, making sure that he was gone, and after taking a deep breath to compose herself, she turned back to her patient. “Are you all right, Captain Gold?”

“Never better,” he snapped, shaking his hands out sharply at his sides.

She saw a flicker of regret for his tone immediately, but he extinguished it and turned away, as if trying to take himself out of her attention. She was staring at his back in bemused irk when Graham returned, and she stepped aside.

“All right?” her friend asked quietly.

“I’m fine. I _think_ he’s okay.” She reached up to smooth her hair back toward her cap. “Are you busy?”

“Not just now.”

“Would you mind handing out the rest of the trays? I’ll clean this up, if you will.”

“You should be more careful,” he cautioned. “Belle, getting between men fighting-”

“One of whom is _my patient_ ,” she said matter-of-factly. “You’d have done no less.”

Graham fixed her with his tolerant - and currently concerned - gaze.

“The breakfast trays?” she prompted.

“I certainly can. And I’ll do my best to not accost anyone while at it,” he teased.

Belle gave him a look that didn’t quite make it to scolding intensity as he headed to take over the breakfast trolley.

The orderlies were Regina’s pets, most of them, and when the head nurse heard of Belle’s run-in with Quinn, she wound up assigned to her most loathed task. She spent the majority of the morning with the logbook in the bend of her arm and a pencil propped behind her ear, stuck doing inventory of the east wing supply closet. It seemed always to exist at points of overfull or wretchedly understocked, and somehow rarely in between. The closet was to the brim today, to the point that she struggled to find a place to store rolls of gauze.

She kept a sharp eye on the time, intending to be _on_ the ward, at least, when lunchtime came around. It was five of twelve when she glanced at the watch on her apron strap and quickly made note of the count of suture needle cards. She wasn’t quite finished, but she could come back to it.

When she started the short stretch down the hall, she didn’t expect to see Nurse Mills come stomping out, slamming one of the doors back against the wall.

“ _Just find him!_ ” the head nurse yelled, and Belle worried for a second that her superior was about to lay into her about inventory. She received hardly a glance, though. Nurse Mills was followed close behind by Mary Margaret - apparently to whom she was speaking - the young woman frazzled and embarrassed, if her flushed face was anything to judge by.

Belle was reaching to push open the righthand door when Graham came out the left. “What is it?” she asked, turning on her heel to walk with him.

“We’re missing a patient.” Graham frowned, stopping to open the supply closet door, peering inside.

“I’ve been in there all morning,” she told him, and asked, “Who?” though she had a feeling.

Graham pulled the door shut again. “Captain Gold. He’s been in a bad spot all day.”

“And yesterday,” she sighed. “I’ll help with the search.”

“Might be as simple as him deciding to leave the hospital,” he said, starting down the corridor again.

“No. No, I don’t think so. He’s begging for help, Graham.” Belle shook her head, remembering the look in his eyes. “He just doesn’t know how to go about receiving it y- Graham, slow down,” she said, realizing she’d begun trotting to keep up.

“I can’t. You can split off, take the north wing, if you like.”

“It’s important he be found, but-”

“I’m trying to find him before Regina does,” Graham hissed under his breath, as though the head nurse were right over their shoulders.

Belle was taken aback by his intensity for a moment, but she nodded. “A good idea,” she said, and kept up when he turned to head toward the foyer. “No one saw him leave the ward?”

“Nary an eye, reportedly.”

“I find it difficult to believe he could simply walk out with no one seeing.”

“He’s generally quiet, barely engages with anyone. I don’t.” He looked into a narrow broom closet, unlikely as it was.

“Has lunch come around yet?” Belle asked. “Do you think it’s anything to do with the problem this morning?”

“Very well could be,” Graham said as they passed the front desk.

Mal wasn’t at her station. Belle wondered if she had joined the search, as well.

“I worried,” she admitted. “I was going to try to be on the ward when the food came in, to avoid a repeat of it.”

“That was my thought, too. But he’d gone before the trolley arrived.” Graham opened an examination room door to step inside. “Could be something else entirely. ‘Predictable’ is not a word I’d use to describe any of these men.”

Nurse Mills’ voice came echoing down the hall. “If you find him, bring him directly to me. I’ll take him to Dr. Whale myself,” she told someone. Belle frowned. Was the head nurse wanting to take Captain Gold to Dr. Whale as a doctor or as the hospital administrator? Either way, the woman’s intentions couldn’t be good.

“The north wing, you said?” Belle asked, and she waited for Graham to nod before she hurried off.

She passed Ruby in the foyer as she went back through, and nearly collided with Nurse Novak as the girl came out of an exam room.

“Oh!” Astrid squeaked, and she giggled nervously, a hand darting up to press to her chest. “I didn’t see you there.”

“Has anyone-” 

“Found him? No, not yet.” Astrid shook her head and reassured, “But we will! Nurse Mills has the whole hospital looking.”

Belle nodded and smiled a smile she didn’t feel, hoping again that she or Graham found him first. She hadn’t been told directly to take Captain Gold to Nurse Mills - she could get away with steering him right back to his bed, and maybe the head nurse wouldn’t disturb him. Maybe.

She opened every door in her path, going in to make a circle through before moving on. She’d nearly given up hope by the time she got to the end of the north wing corridor. All that lay beyond her were the ward’s own supply closet and the ward itself, and surely someone had found him by now, as late as she had joined the search.

When she opened the closet door, the room was as silent as she anticipated it to be. She stepped inside, walking toward the back to make sure she didn’t miss anything because of the shelving that jutted out into the center from the left wall. She looked around the end, fully expecting an empty room.

Boxes of new bed linens had been pulled out from the corner and stacked aside to make room, to make a snug space for him to fit himself.

Belle hurried back to the open door and shut it quietly before going to peer around the shelf again. He was looking at her when she did, a mix of consternation and annoyance on his face. She raised a hand in front of her to reassure him. “I’m not going to tell,” she said, taking a step closer. “Are you all right?”

Captain Gold frowned at her, but some of the worry left his expression with the knowledge that she wasn’t going to run off to tattle. “Just fine,” he said, and he sounded weary, but there was no venom to it.

“May I sit with you a while?” she asked. “Would you mind?”

His frown deepened a bit and he looked away from her. “If you must.”

Belle pulled another box out and sat herself on top of it, folding her hands in her lap. After a few moments of him flickering his eyes awkwardly up at her, she broke the silence. “What made you come all the way down here?”

He dropped his eyes from hers. “Why did I run and hide, you mean? Isn’t it what I’m good at?”

“That isn’t what I asked. It isn’t what I meant.”

He pulled his folded legs in closer. “It was too much,” he said quietly, “the noise, the people. I needed space that’s quiet and… _not communal_. Just for a little while.”

“It can get overwhelming in there sometimes.” Belle leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Especially around mealtimes.”

The Captain looked up at her cautiously. She wondered if he was verifying whether she was being genuine. He nodded, seeming to relax a little.

He hadn’t eaten a thing since breakfast the day before, and the tea he would take at night was none too filling or nourishing; she did keep her eyes open, just as she told Quinn. Belle fished a piece of peppermint candy from one of her apron pockets, unwrapped it, and popped it into her mouth. Taking out another, she offered it to him.

Captain Gold looked at the piece of candy, and looked up at her again, hesitating, but finally he reached out to take it from her, gingerly pulling the twisted end of the wrapper until it left her fingers. He opened it slowly and ducked his head to put it in his mouth, lasting an admirable few minutes before she heard him begin to crunch it away. It felt like a small victory. When it was gone, she offered him another, holding a piece of taffy and a tiny ruffle of ribbon candy in their little paraffin paper twists out to him in her palm.

He leaned to look, then asked a bit shyly, “Do you have another peppermint?”

Belle smiled, putting them away, and found a peppermint in her pocket for him. If nothing else, she would get a bit of sugar in him, and he didn’t seem _quite_ so anxious after finishing the second piece.

She racked her thoughts for something safe to talk about. Verboten topics were different for each patient. Some didn’t talk about their families or lives back home, others couldn’t talk of religion or the military at all, and most couldn’t talk about the war without becoming upset. She hadn’t spoken with Captain Gold enough yet to know what might bother him.

Well, she would never know if she didn’t broach _something_. “Did you always want to be a pilot?” she asked carefully. Her voice sounded too loud to her own ears in the closed silence of the room.

His expression went from almost neutral to surprised, and for a moment she worried she’d hit a sore spot right off.

“I, ah-” he began, and stopped to clear his throat. “I didn’t rightly know one could _be_ a pilot,” he said with a shake of his head. “When I joined up, it wasn’t an option.”

“Oh, so you went into service farther back?” Belle smiled, encouraged that he responded with even a small amount of openness. “I’m sorry, I assumed.”

He nodded. “Joined up with the Royal Navy in ’91.”

“That was…” Belle’s eyebrows rose as she recalled the information on his chart. “You were very young.”

“Sixteen in December, joined up in May. False papers,” he admitted sheepishly.

Twenty-eight years, Belle calculated quickly. It gave her a bit of a stun. Longer than she’d been alive, he’d been in the service. “And you- how did you become a pilot?”

“Volunteered. I was one of the first in a cockpit when they formed the RFC. Sounded like a wondrous thing, to me, flying.” 

“And was it?”

His eyes crinkled at the corners, and there was a passing sparkle in them. “ _Oh_ , it _was_.”

She smiled at him, and she wondered if he would ever fly again.

“Did you always want to be a nurse?” he asked, turning her curiosity back on her.

She looked down at her skirt, brushing a wrinkle out of the cotton. Her smile turned rueful, but she steered the question away. “It’s something I came to. What made you join up at so young an age?”

“I had a need to strike out on my own.” He said it haltingly and with a bit too much forced brightness.

Belle leaned just a bit closer, resting her arms on her knees again. “A thirst for adventure? Sailing the high seas?”

He returned her smile, but it, too, was forced, and reached nowhere near his eyes. He tugged at the belt of his robe, fretting with a thread on the tail. “I was… better off on my own.”

“What sent you into the military?” Belle was aware that she was toeing a line, but her desire to know was too great. She told herself she would back off. “Surely you could have found a job, or an apprenticeship somewhere, if it was simply taking care of yourself?”

She could see as he drew in on himself, and instantly regretted pushing so hard. _There_ was a sore spot.

“I wanted to be as far f- from _him_ as possible,” he murmured, eyes staunchly on his hands, now.

She let her smile drop, understanding that his early absconding into the military wasn’t the action of an overeager, mischievous boy. It was a desperate leap to escape.

“Did you enjoy it, though, being a sailor?” she asked him, for once heeding her advice to herself and stepping away from the line.

“I did. I enjoyed being a pilot more,” he said with the air of a confession, and the smallest of smiles pulled at the corner of his mouth. The heaviness around him seemed to dissipate, even if only a tad.

Belle sighed, soft, sitting up straight. “You know,” she said more airily, and he looked up at her again at last. “That peppermint made me crave a cup of tea. What do you think? Do you find a cup of tea agreeable?”

Captain Gold shrugged one shoulder. “I wouldn’t be averse.”

She stood, pushing the box she’d been sitting on back under the shelf with the side of her foot. She held her hand out to him. “Would you come back with me, then?”

He looked at her hand, but didn’t take it, opting instead to push to his feet on his own.

Belle walked ahead and he followed her out more slowly. “We’ll have a cup and see how you feel when the dinner trays come out this evening.”

“No promises,” he said, speeding his steps to walk just a little more closely behind her.


	6. Bitterness

Rummond hadn’t realized there would be visitation on Sunday, but he supposed he should have been able to predict it. If he’d thought of it, and had the nurses and orderlies not been watching him like a hawk, he would likely have sought out a place to hide again, pathetic as that was. For most people, Sunday was a day for family, and just about half an hour after church services were done with, visitors began to trickle into the ward. Women and children, mostly. A few men, fewer of them soldiers themselves. Despite the noise, it turned the ward into a place warmer and softer than it was otherwise, and something painful clutched at Rummond’s heart.

Aside from a scruffy little priest and a trio of dour but polite nuns from the parish a mile up the road, each of whom he dismissed in turn when they approached him, no one had uttered a word to him all day. He sat on his bunk with his robe around him and the blanket over his folded legs, playing solitaire on the covers in front of him.

Nurse French arrived in the evening, taking the night shift as she did every Sunday. She came by his bunk near lights out, his nightly medication between her hands, held close to her. Thus far, Dr. Whale had seen fit to prescribe only a sedative - a spoonful of quinine sulfate, same as most of the men on the ward received. The nurses stirred it into a cup of warmed and sweetened lemon water to keep it from upsetting the stomach. It would relax him, somewhat, but it had yet to help him sleep.

“Did you have company today?” she asked him cheerfully. The last of the family visitors, the wife and surly teenage boy of an Army lieutenant colonel near the end of the center rows, were just leaving. The nurses didn’t actively ask anyone to leave until near the moment of lights out, as long as the company didn’t wear on the patients.

He shook his head, gathering his cards and tapping them on the table to even the ends before sliding them back into their box. He set aside the book that Jefferson lent him earlier in the week - something to do with a great sea monster and a submarine - and slipped something from his pocket under it for safekeeping. Reading it had been slow going because he couldn’t concentrate his attention on it, but that was par for the course now. Not much could hold his attention for any decent length of time.

“No,” he told her, perhaps more gruff than he’d intended to be.

She frowned a little, hesitating, and he felt a bit badly for being so terse with her. She continued on, though more carefully. “Do you have no one to visit you?”

He shook his head again, suddenly very concerned with nudging the pack of cards square with the edge of the book on his bedside table.

“You have no family?” she asked gently.

“I…” The corners of his mouth pulled, wanting to frown, and he fought it. “It’s a complicated situation.”

Nurse French nodded and gave him a sympathetic look that somehow made him feel even smaller. “That happens, sometimes. Not _all_ of the men receive visitors,” she told him quietly. “If you want company on Sundays, the priest who attends to the patients here is kind and discreet. He doesn’t leave until he sees everyone who wishes it.”

He glanced over where the strikingly unshaven man in black vestments sat by a patient’s bedside with his head bowed and hands folded together. The nuns were long gone; they’d taken their leave before dark. According to Jefferson, the priest _et al_ came around every week. Most of the men spoke to them readily, at least in passing, but today had carried a particularly heavy workload. There had been a death on the ward the previous day, and many patients desired a longer talk. Lance Bombardier Paul Argall hadn’t died _on_ the ward, technically. He’d been taken for some manner of treatment after three days of being unable to emerge from his bunk, and simply hadn’t returned. News of his passing had quickly made it to the other men through the orderlies.

Rummond understood the sentiment of leaning on one’s faith. It was not, however, his way. “I’m not Catholic.”

“We could certainly have a minister of another faith come in. It would be no trouble.”

“I’m not much of anything at all,” he mumbled down toward the blanket.

He’d had some beliefs, once, general as they’d been. But now… Well, any god who prized bravery and loyalty couldn’t possibly want anything to do with him. Not even _God_ could love the likes of him.

“Or, it would only be at the end of the day, but I could stay for a-” she began to offer.

“No. That’s not necessary.” He reached to fiddle with the book and cards again, and he fumbled, making the book clap to the floor and the cards go sliding across the slick tile as if they’d minds of their own.

He practically dove to the floor, searching among the cards. The nurse placed the cup of quinine water on the lid of his footlocker and dropped to her knees to help, not noticing that she was gathering the cards alone while he looked.

“Oh…” she whispered, and pulled a small photograph from between a seven of hearts and a king of spades, holding it out to him.

Rummond sighed in relief and plucked it quickly from her fingers, tucking it into the breast pocket of his robe, and helped her pick up the rest of the cards. He was careful not to touch her hands as he gave them to her, since she had the box. He would have to count them tomorrow and make sure none had gotten away, but they cleaned up all they saw, and he managed not to groan at the twinge in his ankle as he got back to his feet.

He sat down on his bunk again and looked up at her. By her remarks, it seemed as though she’d been trying to appease some loneliness she must have seen in him. He wasn’t doing a good enough job of keeping himself closed off. But he had a decision to make. Snipe at Nurse French and tell her to give him his damned sedative and move on to the next patient, or… or show her what he’d had in the pocket over his heart all day. What he had only moments before tucked beneath the book on his table, to keep from possibly losing or damaging it in his sleep. The former was the more comfortable, would allow him to remain on the vaguely angry side of numb, where he sat right now. The latter would surely crack him open to some degree, but he hadn’t spoken to another person about that little photograph in _so long_.

He stared at her, the effort of making the choice almost panicking him as he weighed the sides of it.

Her smile faded a bit before she consciously brought it back. “Captain? Are you all right? The cards, they were nothing. It could happen to anyone,” she assured him, as if his ridiculous moment of clumsiness were the worry at the forefront of his mind.

If she had been any of the other nurses… But this was the one who found him in the supply closet, who had treated him with more kindness than anyone in a very long time.

Rummond reached up and took the creased photograph, so much worse for the wear from being his constant companion, from his pocket. He held it wordlessly out to her, not quite holding his breath.

The young nurse sat near the foot of his bunk, keeping an appropriate distance between them, before she reached out to take the photo. It looked as if it had been through the entire war with him. A little boy smiled up at her from the bit of heavy paper.

His throat clicked when he swallowed, and he managed to croak out, “That’s my son.”

“He’s beautiful,” Nurse French said right away, smiling back at the child’s image. His smile _was_ an infectious one. “May I ask his name?”

“Neal,” Rummond answered. He gestured to the picture with his index finger, the motion a bounce of his hand rather than a pointed stab. “He’s naught but three there. He’ll be six now, but it’s all I have of him.”

He fidgeted in midair, rubbing his thumb against his curled finger, _needing_ the photograph back. She held it out for him to take. He slipped it out of her hand and ran his fingers lovingly over it, his face crumpling. 

The nurse spoke softly. “How long has it been since you saw him?”

“More than a year, now.” His mouth shook, and he pressed his lips together into a thin line, having to gain more control over himself before he could whisper, “I miss my boy.”

“You love him very much,” she said, stating the painfully obvious, and he blessed her silently for not pressing about why, exactly, he hadn’t seen his son. That, he wasn’t ready for.

He stroked the pad of his thumb over the image of his son’s smiling little face.

“I’m sure you’ll see him again,” she tried to reassure him.

Her words found a place in him, threatening to create some flickering hope. He shut the feeling right down, before it worked its way in too far. He couldn’t take that - finding hope _there_ and having it crushed. Anywhere but there.

It was all he could stand tonight. He put the photograph back in the drawer, placing it perfectly into the corner nearest him, and closed it. “I should get myself to bed,” he said suddenly, his voice raw, and he flicked a hand in the direction of the cup. It was likely less than lukewarm by now, but quinine had never bothered his insides much.

“Of course,” she said. The way she looked at him hurt - the pity, the eagerness to sympathize. They weren’t things he wanted. He only wanted someone to _know_. Someone who wouldn’t gouge him for more, who wouldn’t use the knowledge against him in any way. Nurse French had been good to him, and he was far from ready to get into the discussion that talking about his son would fire off with the psychologist who was winding his way into Rummond’s head.

She stood, brushing a wrinkle from the corner of the bunk where she’d sat, and took the cup to hand it to him. “It’s gone cold,” she said. “I can make another.”

“No, it’s fine.” His words had grown short again, something inside him stinging from revealing so much, and though he felt badly for it, he couldn’t bring himself to stop. “Just hand it here.”

She offered the cup and he took it, downing the now bitter liquid in one long draft, and thrust the heavy, utilitarian porcelain cup at her again. She took it more gently than he returned it. “Good night, Captain Gold.”

Apparently Nurse French didn’t place herself at the front desk save for checks, the way the others did. She brought a lantern and a thick text of some sort, and she sat in the corner near the doors, reading and watching over the ward. It was somehow at once comforting and disconcerting, to be watched over so while trying to sleep.

After he’d lain down, after the lights had been turned out and Nurse French had taken up her corner reading spot, Jefferson spoke just loudly enough to carry across to Rummond in the next bunk. “I have a daughter.”

“Oh,” Rummond said after a few moments, not knowing how to reply. Jefferson had obviously overheard. It bothered him a bit.

“I don’t know what I’d do, if I hadn’t seen her in so long. Probably be madder than I am.”

“She didn’t visit.”

“My wife brings her every other Sunday. They were here last week.” Jefferson’s bed squeaked as he turned onto his back, and he sighed loudly through his nose. “Where we live, it’s too far out to come every time.”

“You’re lucky,” Rummond grumbled, unable to help the jealousy that welled up in him.


	7. Long Is the Way

His father started off in life as a pawnbroker. Small time, barely making enough to feed the two of them. There were days they hadn’t more than hot water to trick their stomachs. If it hadn’t been for the windfalls of four estates full of antiques falling into Malcolm’s lap right in a row - something Rummond had been suspicious of even at the age of ten - he’d have stayed a pawnbroker for the rest of his life. Malcolm had invested a large portion of the money in the stock market and managed to bring money in hand over fist as result. The stock money, along with income from a handful of other investments, paid for his father’s mansion, the expensive tastes Malcolm developed, and those neverending strings. He was far from a frugal man, and did he not still bring in a solid £15,000 annually, Rummond knew his father would quickly spend himself into the poorhouse.

Before the tenement, Rummond had a nice house of his own, he and Milah and Neal. It was no mansion, but he’d paid for it himself, with his own savings, and it was more than enough room for them. He’d stayed out of his father’s life and kept the man out of his as much as possible. He didn’t want that influence anywhere near his son.

“Tell me about your father,” Dr. Hopper had asked near the beginning of the session.

Rummond knew there were things he would likely have to talk to the psychologist about eventually. Things he hadn’t said aloud to anyone. But talking about his father was not something he intended to do, nor that he felt had a jot of association with any of the reasons he was here in the first place. His childhood was behind a closed door, where it belonged and where it would stay.

Today had been a good day, thus far, considering. According to the pendulum clock on the wall of the ward, he’d slept for two hours in a row the previous night. His head didn’t hurt, he hadn’t seen nor heard anything that wasn’t there. His heart didn’t feel as though it would pound out of his chest. He had even managed to eat a bit of breakfast.

He sat, silent - a response that wasn’t unusual for him in this room - looking for something to say that didn’t seem angry. What came out was, “Why crickets?”

“Pardon?” Dr. Hopper asked, eyebrows raised. 

“You’ve crickets on your desk, books on crickets, crickets hidden in the paintings.” He gestured toward the framed mountain scenery, where he’d found one of the insects camouflaged in grass at the forefront. “Why crickets?” Rummond asked by way of distraction.

“Well,” the doctor began, sitting back in his chair, a bit surprised by his patient’s observancy. “They’re good luck, traditionally. And I’ve always loved the sound of them, since I was a boy.” He smiled indulgently. “Are you deflecting, Captain?”

Rummond pulled a bit of a face with a dismissive scoff to it. “Mere curiosity.”

“We can ease into talking about your father,” Dr. Hopper said, setting down his pen and leaning back, trying to put Captain Gold more at ease. “Can you talk about your mother?”

“What does this have to do with anything? Neither of my parents are why I’m here.”

“Knowing a little about your background is very helpful.”

Rummond looked very purposefully down. He gave a violent brush to a bit of lint that was not on the knee of his robe. If it would shut the man up… “She died,” he clipped. “I never knew her.”

“So you were raised solely by your father?” Dr. Hopper saw a gentler way in and took it.

“Such as it was.”

“I take it you don’t have a good relationship with him.”

Rummond snorted softly in answer, balking at putting anything about their ‘relationship’ into words. Nothing good could come of dredging it up.

He hadn’t actually had a great deal to do with his father during the many years between going into the military and being put on trial. It hadn’t been his intention to get his father involved in the situation even then. Malcolm had found out through some connection, likely his own barrister, and had pulled strings and called in favors to have Rummond freed against his will. In the end - his wife and son gone, despised as he was, unable to even get a job, having to live with the things in his head - he’d rather have been executed. And he’d never get the sound of his father’s laughter after walking out of the courthouse that morning out of his head. The thought of it now made him want to curl in on himself.

Rummond’s body language alerted the doctor to the need for a change in subject again. Hopper sat forward, subtly picking up his fountain pen. “What can you tell me about your symptoms?”

“My symptoms?” Rummond frowned. “I filled out the paperwork, didn’t I? There was a box for… symptoms.”

Dr. Hopper glanced down at the open file in front of him. What Captain Gold wrote down on his way in and what the doctor had seen himself and been told by nurses and a certain orderly were quite the distance between. He had multiple reports of hallucinations, extreme appetite disruption and insomnia, on top of what the Captain had reported himself. His symptoms, though potentially devastating unless brought under control, weren’t terribly unusual among the men he treated.

“Yes. I have that information. That’s what I’ve been going on, so far,” the doctor told him. “What I’m looking for is more along the lines of expounding upon what little you gave when you were being admitted. In your own words.”

Rummond opened his mouth, and it simply hung open for a moment before he could make his voice box and tongue work together to form words. “You want more? You want… what? Explanation?” He had to tell the doctor _something_. It kept coming back to that. He was on his fifth session with Dr. Hopper, and the lion’s share of what they’d accomplished up to this point was small talk. But it wasn’t exactly Rummond’s greatest wish to discuss his failings as a man. _In detail_.

Dr. Hopper gave him an encouraging nod. The man was good at that - making Rummond feel as if he _wanted_ him to talk. It didn’t help.

“I-” Rummond managed before stammering to a halt. “I-”

The doctor looked down a bit, noticing the way his patient fidgeted anxiously. It wasn’t a random motion, not a simple twitch. It was as if Rummond were trying to accomplish something with it. “Did you work with your hands? Before you went into the military.”

Rummond looked up at the doctor in surprise. “I did,” he said, nodding. “When I was a boy. I had a knack for fixing clockwork.” His expression darkened a bit. “My father figured it out and put me to good use in his shop, set me to fixing every clock and watch and wind-up toy that came in. Why do you ask?”

Dr. Hopper gave a quick shake of his head. “No reason in particular,” he claimed. He didn’t want to bring his patient’s attention to his fidget; if it helped him to cope with something - discomfort, exhausted nerves, whathaveyou - it would only hurt to interrupt it. “You simply strike me as a man who is good with fine work. Though… I do have an old pocketwatch that… Ah, nevermind. Where were we?”

“You’ve a pocketwatch that needs repair?” Rummond asked, seeming to become interested.

“Well, yes.” Dr. Hopper smiled. “An old thing. My father’s. It stopped working back when he was still around. I’m useless with gears and such, myself, and I haven’t had time to take it in to a shop.”

Rummond, for once, returned the doctor’s smile. A watch to fix - he’d be useful for something, however small. “I could perhaps- I mean, if you’d bring it in, I might be able to get it into working order again.”

“And it wouldn’t be an imposition?”

“No, no, not at all. It’ll be nice, being helpful,” Rummond said before he realized it, not knowing how much something so simple revealed to the doctor.

The doctor nodded, making a few quick notes in his own shorthand. “I’ll bring it in time for our Wednesday appointment, then.” He flicked a glance to the clock on the sofa’s side table. Fifteen minutes left on the hour. Perhaps since his patient had relaxed, however minutely, he might discuss something less pain-fraught. “I heard you disappeared for a little while, a couple of days ago? It put the ward in a bit of turmoil.”

Rummond’s mouth twitched in pique. He suspected that the doctor knew of it when it happened, and wondered why it only came up now. He’d already been in to see Dr. Hopper since. “I was made aware.”

“You got into a bit of trouble over it?”

“You could say that.” Guilt passed over Rummond’s expression, but his face turned quickly hard again. “Nurse Mills paid a visit afterward.”

“Ah. Yes.” Dr. Hopper visibly cringed. He steered away from discussing that particular hospital employee. “What happened? N-not with Nurse Mills. About your ‘disappearance.’ Why did you feel the need to remove yourself from the ward?”

“I needed quiet,” Rummond said - an even more terse explanation than he’d given Nurse French.

“Noise bothers you?”

“Not always. Sometimes it gets to be a bit much.” It wasn’t just the noise, but it was easiest to lay it on that. He didn’t want to discuss the way eating - or _trying_ to eat - had begun to set him off. It felt ridiculous.

Dr. Hopper nodded, giving him an understanding smile. “And Nurse French was the one to find you?”

“Aye.” Rummond was surprised to find the corner of his mouth pulling toward a bit of a smile of his own. “Talked me back to the ward, I suppose.”

Dr. Hopper noticed his patient’s change in demeanor, but he didn’t make note. Becoming attached to one’s caregivers was common in war hospitals, it seemed, and if it helped a patient, then all the better. As long as it didn’t go too far. He’d been witness to an unpleasant few of those situations, as well. “Have you made any friends on the ward, Captain Gold? I see that your assigned bed is between Lieutenant Hargreaves and Lieutenant Booth?”

“Friends,” Rummond huffed a short laugh through his nose. Friends, as if he were a schoolboy. “No, I wouldn’t say ‘friends.’” He’d still barely spoken to Booth, though Jefferson seemed quite personable, if a bit odd at times. He had a sudden, unbidden thought of Nurse French again, and wondered where that had come from. Kindness notwithstanding, she wasn’t a _friend_. He was her patient.

Dr. Hopper nodded a bit. He watched as his patient shuttered himself again, but his response had confirmed one of the doctor’s suspicions regarding Captain Gold’s life in the hospital. “If you aren’t talking to me,” he began gently, “you should talk to someone. A friend, or a fellow patient who understands what you’re going through, wouldn’t be a bad idea. Even if all you can manage is an exchange of pleasantries. Jefferson might be ideal. Or Leroy, though I don’t believe his bed is near yours…” He began sifting through a stack of paperwork to one side of his desk for the most recent bed chart.

Rummond frowned at the suggestion. “Thank you for your opinions, doctor,” he snapped, scooting forward in his seat. He didn’t want to be pushed at anyone, or to have anyone pushed at him for sake of blundersome conversation. “I’ll take it under advisement. But I believe our time is up for today.”

Dr. Hopper looked at the clock again, flustered by his patient citing the time. “Well, there are five minutes on our-” he began, but Captain Gold was already up and headed for the door.

“Good day, Dr. Hopper,” Rummond said on his way out.


	8. The Psychology of Brutality

Ruby gasped, pulling Belle aside after the morning briefing. “You’ve got it back!” Her friend haphazardly folded the new roster - they had another new patient; an American who had been on exchange duty with the Royal Marines - and shoved it into her apron pocket before grabbing Belle’s hand.

Belle smiled, shaking her head. She’d meant to take it off before going in for her shift. They weren’t _officially_ engaged yet, as it hadn’t been announced publicly, but she wore the ring around home because Donat liked to see it. The platinum band was decorated with fine etching, and it boasted a trio of three-quarter carat diamonds. There was no doubt that it was beautiful, and it stayed on her finger just fine now, but it still didn’t feel as if it fit just right.

“It took an eternity, but he wouldn’t let just anyone resize it,” she said, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. Six weeks, between fetching and carrying to and fro via courier, and waiting for some fancy French jeweler to work on it, just because Donat wanted to ‘keep up standards.’ Belle herself was from a wealthy family, and even she had been afraid to ask what the ring cost.

“I still can’t believe you landed Donat Gaston,” Ruby groaned. She dragged Belle over to the window so that she could see the ring in natural light. “There’ve been girls after him for ten years, and here you are, less than six months after laying eyes on him, and engaged.”

“So you’ve said.” Belle sighed. _Engaged._ It still sounded odd to her ears. She was engaged. She had a fiancé. It didn’t sound real.

Ruby turned Belle’s hand to make the diamonds sparkle, and looked at it with such jealousy that Belle felt guilty for not being as excited as her friend was. “It’s _gorgeous_ , Belle. You’re so lucky.”

“Oh, Ruby.” Belle reached up with her free hand to straighten the strap of her friend’s apron, and tucked a piece of hair under the edge of her hat, fussing to take focus off her ring and everything that surrounded it. “You have Victor.”

Ruby looked as if she’d have preened, were she not holding Belle’s left hand in both of hers. “I _do_ don’t I?”

“Around your little finger.” Belle smiled. Dr. Whale didn’t figure into _her_ idea of romance, and she wasn’t completely convinced by some of the ‘marvels of modern medicine’ that he incorporated into his practice, but Ruby was happy, and that was what mattered when it came to the two of them. The relationship was an open secret, of sorts - everyone knew, but no one drew attention to it. Except perhaps Ruby herself, with her hot gazes and wolfish smiles. Belle hadn’t had much interaction with Dr. Whale in a setting outside of the hospital, though, and she hoped that he treated her friend well when they were alone.

“Hopefully around my ring finger soon!” Ruby laughed, but it wasn’t as mirthful as usual.

“It takes some men time.”

Ruby cocked her head in exasperation. “Three years?”

“Does _he_ realize it’s been so long?” Belle asked pointedly. Everyone from the surgeons to the orderlies was well aware that Victor Whale was obsessive when it came to his work. He sometimes didn’t recall the month, nevermind the day - that’s what his secretary, Mr. Fritz, was for, after all. And it was entirely possible that he’d missed just how long he and Ruby had been carrying on.

At that, Ruby stared at her, and Belle had a feeling her friend would be informing him of that fact very soon.

“Suppose I should get on doing rounds,” Ruby said. “I’ve got the new one this time.”

“I’ll be along. I need to stop by and get a few things from the supply closet. Apparently Lieutenant Tillman has reopened his stitches. Again.”

Ruby shook her head. They’d had trouble with the man ever since he was transferred to the east wing. “He should have stayed on the general ward. He’ll end up with an infection, mark my words.”

“They moved him because they weren’t equipped to handle his psychological state,” Belle said, repeating Dr. Hopper’s words when he’d briefed them himself on Lieutenant Tillman’s situation. “We can care for his physical wounds as well as the rest.”

“They could have. They didn’t _want_ to,” Ruby said, dripping with disapproval, and pivoted on the ball of her foot before swaying off.

Ruby of the last word. Belle grinned and tucked her roster neatly away in her pocket, heading for the closet near the center of the hospital. Gauze, suturing supplies, and disinfectant were all neatly filed away in their own supply closet, but the ointment she needed to rebandage with wasn’t kept with the more basic items near the east ward doors. She left the door ajar when she went in, placing her ring in her purse, and her purse on the top shelf just inside, and she reminded herself repeatedly that she was leaving it here today, so that she wouldn’t frighten herself by looking for it in the wrong place.

She was poking through a glass-front cabinet for the particular salve when she heard Nurse Mills’ voice. Odd. The head nurse usually had business in the burn ward first thing in the morning.

Belle didn’t _mean_ to eavesdrop. She located the only container of the medicine there, and hovered just inside the closet door because didn’t want to cross paths with Nurse Mills. It wasn’t a morning on which she wished to inflict that upon herself when she could so easily avoid it. That’s what she told herself. Then she heard Dr. Hopper’s quieter voice and she couldn’t even pretend to believe her own excuse.

“I’m so glad to hear that you’re doing well, doctor,” Regina said, her voice pitched low in a way that Belle had never heard. She sounded… flirtatious? The very idea of it made Belle suspicious.

Dr. Hopper’s reply was mild, polite, but Belle could hear the distrust beneath. “And you. I’m just on my way, so, ah-”

Nurse Mills, of course, didn’t heed his attempt to sidestep the ‘chance’ meeting. “I wondered if I could inquire after a patient with you? Simply as a precaution, of course.”

“Well, it- it depends on the question,” Dr. Hopper hedged.

“It’s Captain Gold.” 

The way the head nurse said his rank and name, as if she were casting doubt on its validity, gave Belle a prickly, protective urge over her patient. It also made her want to stick a foot out when Nurse Mills came back down the hall.

“I can’t talk about my patients. It’s the nature of the doctor-patient relationship.” His tone grew even more cautious, and Belle was glad of it.

“Oh, I’m only asking because you _did_ let us know that he might be a suicide risk,” Nurse Mills said, her excuse filled with what Belle hoped Dr. Hopper could tell was an imitation of innocence.

“That was for _his_ safety,” he said very matter-of-factly. “If you’ll excuse me-”

Both voices quieted, but there were no footsteps, either. Belle, dying of curiosity, found that there was just enough room to peer around the doorframe. 

Regina was touching Dr. Hopper’s collar. Her hand moved, and she ran a finger along the top edge of his waistcoat. Belle’s mouth dropped open.

“I’m only asking,” Nurse Mills continued, giving the now confused psychologist a sultry look, “to make sure that he receives the best possible treatment.”

The doctor was growing flustered. “I- I don’t think I should-”

Belle frowned, her hand tightening on the little pot of ointment. _Why_ was Nurse Mills fishing for information on Captain Gold in particular?

“You know,” the head nurse began, her tone moving from flirtatious to gaining a bit of viciousness in the face of Dr. Hopper’s reluctance to pour forth what she wanted. “I’ve had some very interesting conversations with Dr. Glass on the subject of shell shock.”

“Have you?” Dr. Hopper regarded her warily. 

Dr. Sidney Glass was a bit new to the hospital, having been installed in his office for only four months, brought in from New York because of his much lauded reputation. He was a doctor in the north wing, where the burn injury patients lived, and he worked wonders with all manner of burns. Belle had seen the scars on his patients that were transferred to the east ward, and some of those healed were more extensive than burns she’d seen on men given up on and sedated to wait for death during the war. Nurse Mills had taken up with him quickly for some reason. This was the first Belle had heard about him having opinions on shell shock victims, though.

“ _Dr. Glass_ believes that all they need is occupational training and intensive inculcation of masculinity,” the head nurse said, raising her chin, sounding as if she parroted the advice. “He says doctors should show a modicum of sympathy while telling the patient to face up to the illness in a manly and courageous manner.”

Dr. Hopper frowned at her words, pushing his glasses up on his nose more roughly than his usual anxious tell, and Belle thought perhaps Nurse Mills touched the doctor’s temper. “Now, I don’t believe that shell shock is-”

“He _also_ says that patients have no choice but to accept that their reputations as men will always suffer from it,” Nurse Mills barrelled on, apparently spurred by his response.

“It has nothing at all to do with manliness or courage,” Dr. Hopper said, pulling his posture up straighter. “Shell shock is an involuntary reaction to trauma. It- it is an _injury_ , an illness, all variations of it. Not a- a failing, or evidence of some lack of bravery and masculinity.”

“Well,” the head nurse said, smug in her success in eliciting such a reaction, “Dr. Glass has different ideas, and he _is_ an internationally respected physician. Perhaps the methods of treatment that he knows-”

“I can’t speak as to Captain Gold’s treatment - not my part in it,” the doctor asserted, flat out refusing to tell her anything about his patient, and reached up to pluck Nurse Mills’ hand away from his clothing.

“Good man,” Belle said under her breath, and reminded herself to do something nice for him.

Nurse Mills scoffed at the rebuffal, her eyes going hard and spiteful. “These _malingerers_ shouldn’t be in the same facilities with soldiers who have legitimately served their country,” she bit off.

Belle ducked back into the supply closet, tucking herself behind the door as Nurse Mills stalked off, shoes clacking on the tile. She had only a split second to debate her choices. She could go back to the east ward and remain safe and unseen, or she could follow the head nurse and risk getting caught eavesdropping. She feared Nurse Mills was up to something. Surely it wasn’t more responsible to ignore that…

Belle dropped the little pot of ointment into her apron pocket and stepped quickly out into the hallway. Her superior had already gone around the corner, but Belle could still hear her shoes. Besides, she had an idea where Nurse Mills’ next stop was. She followed the head nurse into the south wing, where all of the doctors’ offices were located. 

Slowing at the turn before the corridor opened up into the office area, Belle rested her hand on the wall and peered carefully around the corner. There, halfway down the hall, Nurse Mills knocked on Dr. Whale’s office door. Belle listened to her give him the same spiel that she’d used on Dr. Hopper, trying to pry something out of him.

“You know I can’t give you details,” he said, pulling his office door shut behind him when he saw that he wouldn’t get out of the conversation so easily.

Nurse Mills wheedled at him, reaching up to touch his collar just as she had Dr. Hopper, and Belle cringed. “I’m not asking for a full report,” the head nurse said, smiling that bright smile that made Belle’s stomach drop, no matter how unthreatening her superior was pretending to be.

Dr. Whale returned her smile with a false one of his own. “I’m not at liberty.”

“You _do_ remember the warning that Dr. Hopper gave the staff, do you not?” Nurse Mills pushed, using what she apparently thought was her greatest bargaining chip. “I wouldn’t want to endanger any of my nurses, if the patient turns violent.”

“Your nurses have nothing to fear out of Captain Gold,” he said - and at least _he_ didn’t refer to the Captain in a snide manner. “He is coming along.”

As much fault as Belle found with Dr. Whale’s methods, she gave him a smidge of credit for not giving the head nurse what she was looking for.

Nurse Mills harrumphed and stepped back. Belle startled; she’d lingered too long, and the head nurse’s path would take her right back that way. That gave her limited choices. She couldn’t get back down the corridor ahead of Nurse Mills’ angry march quickly enough - not silently, and she cursed her new shoes for that - but she could hide. If she had a hiding _place_.

Belle looked frantically back down the hall for the south wing supply closet. She didn’t come into this part of the hospital often, but the wings were all built similarly enough that she found it and got inside, hoping she’d made it quietly enough and gotten the door closed before Nurse Mills came around the corner.

She heard the head nurse’s footsteps approach, and held her breath, waiting for them to move past and away. They stopped. Belle’s heart jumped to her throat. What would Nurse Mills do if she thought Belle had been listening? There was nothing terribly damning in what Belle had heard, not in itself. She didn’t think Nurse Mills could _fire_ her. Not outright. Belle’s father was too influential and donated too much money to the hospital. But the head nurse could surely make life miserable for her until she broke and quit.

The doorknob turned, and Belle had a quick thought, darting a hand into her apron pocket just as the head nurse swung the door open.

“What, exactly, are you doing?” Nurse Mills asked, a dark look on her face.

“Ointment,” Belle said, holding up the little pot of salve. “For Lieutenant Tillman.”

“You came all the way to the south wing for ointment.” Nurse Mills gave her a doubtful, narrow-eyed look.

“The central closet is out of stock,” Belle assured her. She felt badly for the lie, but not so badly that she wouldn’t tell it, and it wasn’t _exactly_ a lie, now that she’d taken the last container.

The head nurse stared her down, and Belle held her ground for an admirable length before she flicked her gaze away. She had the feeling she wouldn’t get away from the encounter until she lost the contest.

“I’ll be checking the shelves,” Nurse Mills warned, tilting her face up to look down her nose.

“A good thing,” Belle said, smiling and hoping she wasn’t pushing her luck with the forced cheerfulness. “We can’t have stock running out so, when the men are depending upon it.”

“Indeed not…” The head nurse eyed her for a moment longer. “Well? Don’t you have rounds?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Belle gave a sharp nod and steered around her superior, who did not move a single inch to give her comfortable passage through the doorway. She hurried back toward the east ward, noting to herself to inspect the sound of her soles next time, before deeming a pair of shoes work-worthy.

She wondered why in Heaven’s name the head nurse was so interested in Captain Gold - why she’d taken such an immense disliking to him. Nurse Mills disliked the east ward, anyway, and held even more prejudice against the men there than Belle originally thought. She regularly targeted the men for petty things, but there seemed to be something particularly virulent about this.

After fetching the rest of her supplies from their own closet, she headed into the ward. The new patient, Corporal Frederick Knight, had been assigned the bed back-to-back with Hargreaves in the center rows. He didn’t yet appear talkative, but most men weren’t right after arrival. Bombardier Leroy Jezek, however, was telling Knight all about what it was like to be an artilleryman.

Belle smiled a bit, setting about her work. She knew that the gruff older man had missed having someone to talk at, after his favorite nurse had been transferred to another wing. To make things worse, it was his bunkmate, the trench raider Paul Argall, who’d died the week before. Leroy was an example of shell shock by wound (according to Dr. Whale’s first examination, though Belle suspected that it was a bit of both classifications). By all accounts, the artilleryman had once been the very definition of happy-go-lucky. An attack on his camp in Italy managed to change that. Nearly the entire battalion had been massacred. The Bombardier himself had received a back and rear skull full of small shrapnel, as well as a severe concussion, but he and seven of his comrades survived. He had been nearly ready for discharge, coping very well near the end of his treatment, with he and his fellow survivor leaning on one another. Now that Argall was gone, he’d had some setbacks.

What _did_ surprise her was finding Captain Gold’s voice amid the low level of chatter. She sat in the chair at Tillman’s bedside, directly across the room from the Captain’s bed, and strained to hear him talking. It was Hargreaves whom he was talking with - or as often as the other man prodded Captain Gold to speak, at least. Hargreaves was having a good day, and on his good days, he was a chatterbox. 

The Captain was being short in return, but at least he was _talking_. Belle probably paid too much attention to their conversation and too little to Tillman, but she couldn’t very well block it out.

“What kind of plane?” Lieutenant Hargreaves asked, sitting up on the side of his bed with interest.

Though it wasn’t much more than a murmur, Captain Gold answered, “Sopwith Dolphin. Gunbus before that.”

“Your Dolphin, it had guns mounted?”

The Captain nodded. “Twin Lewises.”

“Most of the pilots I knew were still shooting at Germans from the cockpit with their sidearms when the war ended.” Hargreaves laughed, clapping his book shut and setting it aside.

“Not all of my squadron’s planes were equipped,” Captain Gold said, smoothing a wrinkle out of his robe.

“You and your boys, you killed passels of Germans, then, that kind of firepower?”

Gold cut his eyes more sharply at Hargreaves, and he grunted. “I suppose we must have,” he muttered.

“How many? Did you keep count?” Hargreaves continued, not seeming to realize how close to the edge Captain Gold was. “One of the pilots I knew, he kept his kill count on the strap of his goggles.”

Belle frowned. So many of the men didn’t like to talk of the war at all. Jefferson was a bit peculiar - well, in quite a few ways, but here in that he did talk a good deal about it. He wanted to hear others’ experiences, and seemed to gain some manner of catharsis from it, but he rarely volunteered to share his own. He would put a sock in it, if asked, and Belle made a mental note to do so.

She saw Captain Gold shaking his head slowly but continuously, and he hesitated for too long. His voice changed, a tremble in it, and though Belle couldn’t hear perfectly over the Bombardier behind them loudly recounting something Argall had once done, she heard enough. “No, no. No, I- I didn’t keep track.”

She could tell from the change in the Captain’s timbre that his nerves were wearing thin, and she turned to find him holding handfuls of his blanket tightly in his fists. Hargreaves, usually quite observant, was oblivious and continued to pepper him with questions and observations.

“Lieutenant Hargreaves,” Belle called across, “I believe the washroom is empty.”

The Lieutenant perked up. “Ah!” he chirped, and ducked down to take his toiletry bag from the shelf beneath his bedside table before hurrying away. A private moment in the washroom was a rare thing, and she knew he would take advantage of it.

Captain Gold looked at her curiously, but his expression turned grateful for her intercession. When she returned his look with a smile, he turned away. Belle watched him for a moment, and it took an ill-tempered reminder from Tillman to bring her back to her work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visual aid: [Belle's engagement ring from Donat](https://31.media.tumblr.com/59e5c72fbafacaf983a3d8fbd6787cc1/tumblr_inline_nipp2aXfBa1rjn473.jpg).


	9. Inner Workings

Dr. Hopper brought in a sad specimen of a pocketwatch, forty years old if a day, and a rolled up leather bundle of watchmaker’s tools. Rummond stood, turning the timepiece over in his hands.

“Bring your chair up closer, Captain,” the doctor said, gesturing to it before he took his own seat. He’d intended for his patient to work right there across from him on the desk, the better to closely observe him while they talked.

Rummond looked up at him, considering, before he decided. “No, I think I- I’ll be more comfortable on the sofa,” he said, pointing over his shoulder before following his hand, taking the tools with him. Dr. Hopper was quiet while he made himself a place there, sitting with a leg curled under him, the tools unrolled and the watch laying on the blue upholstery. He prized the cover off to expose the watch’s movement and left it open as he selected a screwdriver from the assortment to begin separating the grimy components. Despite the battered shell, despite the condition of the interior, the movement was still beautiful. It only needed a bit of care taken with it.

Once the doctor could see that his patient was immersed in his work, he tried yet again to break into a conversation. “Can you tell me what, precisely, brought you here?”

Rummond’s hands paused in their motion, though only for a moment. “We discussed that,” he said simply, laying a tiny steel screw in a crease of the leather and placing the wheel that it released right next to it.

“You don’t want to die.” Dr. Hopper looked for a reaction, attempting to not put too much weight behind the statement.

His patient hummed as if disinterested, but he caught the subtle flinch between Captain Gold’s eyebrows. “I’m looking for something more than the broad stroke, Captain.”

Rummond sighed. “What is it you want to hear?”

“The particular event that brought you to this realization that you need help.” Dr. Hopper could practically see the tension bowing up in his patient’s shoulders. “All I ask for is truth, Captain.”

 _Oh, is that all?_ Rummond thought bitterly. Truth - absolute, bare truth - was one of the most painful things in existence. He’d learned that time and time again throughout his life.

Another wheel came out of the watch while Rummond deliberated and the doctor waited.

“I… had an episode,” Rummond murmured, working carefully with a screw that had a badly-filed slot.

“An episode?” the doctor asked, hoping to urge his patient into revealing more. “It was different somehow?”

Rummond nodded almost imperceptibly. “It’s how I came to think of those times - episodes. Days at a time when I can hardly eat, hardly sleep. Sometimes hardly move,” he muttered. Those days when he doubted he was even human. He kept that particular thought to himself, though. This all felt near enough to a mental ward without being carted off to a proper asylum. “It got to be a- a new ‘normal.’ I felt lucky to sleep a few hours when I did. I thought I’d seen the worst of it. Thought I could live with it.” He deserved it, after all. “But it came on worse.”

Dr. Hopper congratulated himself on being right - the distraction, the _doing_ something was helping Captain Gold to let down his defenses an inch or two and talk. He’d become accustomed to the difficult patients these particular servicemen made, and each one took a different hand, required a different tack. 

“Mm?” The doctor made a soft sound of inquiry to nudge his quieted patient, and he hoped he hadn’t celebrated the small breakthrough too soon.

Rummond’s shoulders slowly relaxed a bit as he removed one case screw after another. “I’d stopped sleeping altogether. Couldn’t move to go out and fetch in provisions.” He very, very carefully laid the pocketwatch’s regulator on the leather tool case, lining it up with the bottom of two wheels, and his voice grew a bit quieter. “Not that I could eat. Not an appetite to speak of. All I forced down, my belly sent right back up. Like my body was rebelling against the very idea of living. I had that thought. And then I thought, well, why should I fight it, if my body wants to die?”

Many - not all, but many - of the men whom Dr. Hopper had treated for shell shock expressed similar thoughts. It wasn’t a surprise. But it _was_ saddening. “You had thoughts of killing yourself?” he asked.

“Letting myself starve, stepping off the tenement roof, putting my service revolver to good use…” Rummond’s hands froze in the middle of drawing out a screw. He hadn’t meant to say so much, but a nervous look up at the doctor didn’t seem to reveal any shock or revulsion in the man’s expression. “I didn’t want to die,” he repeated. “I want to live to see my boy. That’s when I knew I had to get help, or I wouldn’t.”

It had meant dragging himself off the floor and out to his father’s mansion in Stow-on-the-Wold. He hadn’t wanted to be forced to ask his father for _anything_ , least of all money, not after everything. But even more, he wanted to see his little boy again. So he’d gone, tail tucked between his legs, to beg for enough to pay for treatment. His father hadn’t even the decency to put the money in his hands, but had it sent directly to the hospital, as if he suspected Rummond to be lying for it.

“Thank you, Captain Gold, for trusting in me enough to tell me,” Dr. Hopper said.

Rummond had to look up at the man again, fearing he was being mocked, but the doctor seemed genuine. He nodded curtly and worked on liberating the watch’s center wheel, stuck in grime as it was. “Have you any watch oil?” he asked in an odd manner of acknowledgment.

“Not with me.” Dr. Hopper said, understanding. Breakthrough, indeed. He might just have won a patient’s trust today. “I’ll be sure to bring a bottle for our next appointment.” He looked at the clock. Only half of the session gone. He had half a mind to let Captain Gold alone to fiddle with the timepiece, to allow him to recover a bit.

For a handful of near silent minutes containing only the soft clicks of delicate metal on metal, it seemed that was the way the next half hour would go, until Rummond turned to face the doctor. He took a breath as if he were going to speak, and the doctor looked up from his notes about the session to find something akin to pain writ in his patient’s features. Rummond looked at the watch in his hand, then finally up again.

“The orderly, Humbert…” he began.

Dr. Hopper smiled. “I know him.”

“The first day I was here, he said a curious thing to me. He said- he insinuated that this form of cowardice is- is an injury,” Rummond told the doctor hesitantly. “I’ve not been _injured_. I only- I- What happened, it happened the way it did because I _cowered_. Not because I was hurt. There’s men out there, even right here in his hospital, they’ve lost parts of their bodies. Men the world over have died in this war,” he said, opening his hand in the direction of the office door to encompass it all, though there was no anger or vehemence in him just now. If anything, there was anguish. “ _They’ve_ been injured. Me, I’ve just… found corner after corner to hide in.”

Dr. Hopper listened patiently to Captain Gold’s remarks about the war and himself, waiting for him to run down before speaking. “Shell shock has nothing to do with cowardice, Captain,” he said in a soft voice, a small smile that was meant to be some combination of comforting and encouraging turning up the corners of his mouth ever so slightly. “It _is_ an injury. As serious as any other battle wound.”

Rummond scoffed, fidgeting taking over his free hand again, rubbing the pad of his thumb across the side of his forefinger. “Then why are they jailing men for it? Executing them?”

Dr. Hopper had an answer for that - or an opinion, at least - but to voice it likely bordered on treason against the crown. It was best not said in front of a serviceman, anyway. “Would you tell one of the men under your command to brush himself off and keep going, had he a leg shot off? Or a chest wound? Shell shock is just as serious, just as debilitating. As you’ve experienced. Just as _deadly_.”

“What the hell is so deadly about cowardice?” Rummond frowned. “Outside of the possibility of being shuffled in front of a firing squad for it.”

The doctor did his level best not to frown in return, not sure how well he accomplished it. “I’ve lost patients to the direst consequences of shell shock, Captain. I can assure you that it’s an injury that most certainly has a mortality rate.”

Captain Gold looked at him for a while, mouth pressed into a thin line and brow drawn, before going back to his repairs, and Dr. Hopper felt strangely sunk, wondering how much of a breakthrough he’d really managed with his patient after all.


	10. Fleeing Innocence and Distraction

“Ah, before you’re dismissed,” Nurse Mills said when she got to the point of the morning briefing when her nurses began to edge toward the door. Her tone was deceptively light in contrast to her words. “It has come to my attention that a patient on the east ward is perhaps more concerning than originally thought, and it is my duty to warn my nurses to be careful around Captain Gold. The man is _sick_ ,” the head nurse told them, “and unpredictable, with the capability for violence. Be wary. Dismissed.”

Though Nurse Mills’ acting was fair, Belle could see how she relished her remarks.

Belle got out of the head nurse’s office as quickly as she could, but she walked slowly in the direction of the ward. She wasn’t surprised, really. Not after what she’d overheard. She was more dismayed and upset that the head nurse - a position that held responsibility for the nurses and patients, all - would do something that could interfere with the care of Captain Gold.

She dropped her purse off in the supply closet and picked up the charts for the patients in her section to check whether anything new was happening. There was nothing too significant in most, but she found a note in Graham’s handwriting slipped into Captain Gold’s chart, letting her know that he’d had a bad night. Belle tucked the note into her pocket; Graham wasn’t technically allowed to go into patient charts, but his notes were invaluable to her. He paid more attention to the men than some of the nurses did.

Captain Gold had been having an increasingly difficult time, these last few days. He seemed to be in a downswing, as Dr. Hopper called it when one of the men got worse after appearing to be getting better. Before, he had been sleeping a little - at least a couple of hours a night, from what she could glean from the weekday night nurses and Jefferson. He had been making an effort to eat _something_ each day, after the altercation with Quinn, but somehow that had faltered again. Captain Gold didn’t seem to be sleeping, his tremors had become more severe, he wasn’t eating… He could be talked into tea midday and evening, but she could see him growing weaker, and it frightened her. She was somehow managing to grow overly attached to this patient. It was a _terrible_ idea. In all likelihood, she would never see him again after he was discharged. And she refused to at all entertain the thought that he might not make it out of the hospital, which, if she were honest with herself, did nag at the back of her mind.

Their hospital had one of the highest successful treatment rates in the country, but there was still that small percentage that somehow didn’t make it through.

From the moment Belle stepped onto the ward, she could feel the tension. She wasn’t sure whether it resulted from Nurse Mills’ ‘warning’ - likely given to the orderlies, as well - or because of Captain Gold himself. His mood had been dark for days, and most of the nurses and orderlies were avoiding him when they could. Nurse Boyd had been sulking for nearly as long, after he popped off at her about having sticky fingers when his playing cards went missing. They mysteriously reappeared after his next appointment with Dr. Hopper took him off the ward for an hour.

Belle could tell that he was agitated when she walked in, even without the look Graham gave her as he passed her on his own way off the ward with someone’s wash basin. Captain Gold sat on his bed with one leg hanging off, his foot twitching anxiously. His shoulders were drawn in tightly, and he held the same book he’d been struggling with for nearly two weeks now, getting even less read than usual. He gripped it between his hands, staring hard at it in a diligent attempt to not look at something else. He was hallucinating something, then. And between his behavior and Nurse Mills’ oh so helpful remarks, no one was willing to run interference with whatever it was.

Belle made herself tolerably cheerful and went over. Sure enough, when she moved closer, she could see his eyes shifting to the left of his bed, as if something were _right there_. “Good morning,” she said, approaching him.

He startled when she spoke, not having realized she was so close, and looked up at her. His expression was distressed - not anger, exactly, but distrust, and it held the expectation of pain. He didn’t greet her in return, but he nodded in acknowledgment before looking the opposite way again.

“How are you feeling today, so far?” she asked, and he looked at her as if he weren’t sure how to answer.

“Fine,” he said at last, despite both of them knowing it was a lie, and his eyes were drawn away again.

She was going to have to vie for his attention, then. Belle sat herself closer to him, on the right edge of the bed, making herself a distraction from whatever was there for him on the left. She had the urge to ask what it was, but she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to know, either.

So close was she sitting that when he looked to her this time, it was with surprise. He didn’t glance away. Perhaps if she could stay here through breakfast, she might distract him into eating something.

“You’re a bit farther in your book,” she observed, leaning to see the page numbers. Only by two pages, but progress was progress. “At what point in the tale are you?”

“They’ve, ah- they’ve just tried dumping bacon into the water to try and tempt the creature into showing itself,” he said, shaking his head. He closed the book and tossed it down to the foot of the bed. “Once I could go through a book in a day. And now…”

Belle reached for the book, bringing it back to him. “It’s a symptom,” she said gently, placing the book on his bedside table when he wouldn’t take it from her. “The loss of fixed concentration? It will come back in time.”

“Doesn’t feel as if it will ever be any better,” he muttered.

She resisted giving further assurances of it; the mood he was in, they would ring empty or patronizing. She reached into her apron pocket and brought out a peppermint to offer him. It had worked before, and as it had gone over so well then, she had taken to keeping more on her. He took it, but simply sat there fiddling with the wrapper.

When his eyes were again pulled to the left side of the bed, she knew she’d allowed the silence to go on for too long. “Where is Lieutenant Booth?” she asked, noting the empty bed.

Captain Gold shrugged. “He said something about an appointment with Dr. Hopper.”

“Oh?” Belle frowned, thinking. “I didn’t think Dr. Hopper made appointments this early.”

“It’s what he said. _Why_ are the nurses looking at me as if I’ve bared fangs?” he asked, closing his hand around the piece of candy.

None of them were being too subtle, Belle noticed. Some were openly staring, some taking the long way around the row to get to patients, rather than passing by his bed.

Belle sighed. “The head nurse made some remarks this morning.”

“In regards to me, I take it.”

She nodded. “She’s being a hateful old bitty, and I don’t understand it.”

He frowned at a nurse who had daring enough to walk by his footlocker, giving him a sideways look as though he might strike. “One must wonder why she ended up here, much as she appears to hate the people the hospital makes an effort to help.”

Belle had often wondered the same. “She’s been this way as long as I’ve worked here, but Mary Margaret says she was once quite sweet tempered.”

“Mary Margaret?” he asked, and his expression seemed to become more open, though his foot continued to bounce.

“Oh- Nurse Nolan,” she clarified, realizing he wouldn’t likely know the other nurse’s given name. “She’s Nurse Mills’ assistant, of sorts, attached right to her apron strings. She followed her from a big hospital in London right after the war began, and worked with her ten years before that.”

“How does she stand to work so closely with…” He grimaced.

“Nurse Nolan is very tolerant,” Belle explained. ‘Subservient’ was more along the lines of what she meant, but she wouldn’t say that aloud. “But as I said, apparently Nurse Mills wasn’t always the way she is now.”

“Something changed her for the worse,” Captain Gold said, but there was very little pity in his tone.

Belle didn’t gossip. She didn’t mind hearing, and she’d become secret keeper for a fair few nurses, but what went in did not, in general, come back out. Captain Gold hardly spoke to anyone, though. And she’d managed to get him talking, somewhat. She didn’t do too much in her own life outside of the hospital, and that gave her limited personal subjects to volunteer. Perhaps telling him a bit more about the people around him would encourage him to interact with them, slim as those chances were.

“She lost someone,” Belle said, speaking quietly enough that it wouldn’t carry to other patients. “Mary Margaret told me she had a sweetheart once. He was cavalry. One of the very first units to see action. He was injured - took a bayonet to the chest.” Belle realized that she was talking about the war, but the Captain seemed to be only listening with interest. “Nurse Mills worked at the hospital they brought him home to. She didn’t know he was injured until he turned up on the patient roster. She took over his care herself, but he acquired an infection around his heart and died within a day of being brought back to England. According to Mary Margaret, she was devastated, and it colored her opinion of the entire war. I suppose it must have something to do with how vindictive she is toward patients.” 

She wouldn’t tell him the things she’d overheard from the head nurse’s mouth. Expressing those opinions, even being someone else’s words, was not something he needed to hear. It was likely he’d heard much of it on the outside, anyway. Belle thought about Graham, wondering again what happened between he and Nurse Mills, but that wasn't something to be said aloud, either.

“Perhaps she shouldn’t be working around servicemen at all, in such a capacity,” Captain Gold said, visibly irritated, but more present.

“No,” Belle agreed. “Perhaps not.”

Jefferson stood from his bed, and she hurried to distract the Captain before he could look in that direction again. “Is peppermint okay?” she asked, nodding to the piece he still fretted with. “I have others.”

His eyes did dart left, but he looked back to her without hesitation. “Peppermint is fine,” he said, finally unwrapping it to put in his mouth. When Jefferson had stepped into the washroom, Captain Gold asked around the candy, “What happened to Hargreaves? His…” He gestured to his own neck. “Do you know?”

Belle caught the almost imperceptible flicker of a wrinkle between his brows. It gave her a good feeling - it meant that he didn’t feel as little for those around him as he thought he did. She nodded. “A shrapnel wound, while he was stationed in Belgium. A fragmentation shell exploded near his tent. The soldier he shared with was killed, and he very nearly was. If not for a very quick thinking medic, he would have been. The concussive effect of the explosion bruised his brain, Dr. Whale thinks. He’s still working through that, along with his shell shock.”

“But he’s getting better?”

“Oh, he’s getting better all the time.” Belle smiled. From the corner of her eye, she could tell that his foot was still moving, only now it swayed more slowly. “You see, it does happen.”

“And Booth?” he asked right away, not giving in to her optimism.

One of the ward doors opened, and an orderly backed in, pulling the trolley that carried breakfast trays. The center rows being straight in front of the doors, Captain Gold was one of the first to receive his. When he didn’t move to reach for it, Belle took it for him, setting it between them on the blanket. He looked at his hands rather than the food.

“You don’t feel like eating?” she asked. He shook his head, and she thought for a moment before asking, “Are you hungry at all? Is it that the food isn’t appetizing?”

He frowned, as if considering her question. “I’ve some appetite today, I suppose. But I can’t- The thought of eating it-” He shook his head. “And it doesn’t stay down, when I’m feeling this way.”

Belle looked down at the tray. It didn’t look bad; their cook was a good one. Breakfast was the same every morning, though lunch and dinner varied for each day of the week. She wondered, had anyone ever thought to ask him…

“Is there something you think you _could_ eat?”

Captain Gold looked up at her, appearing a bit gobsmacked. No, then. No one had asked. For such an excellent hospital, sometimes they stumbled with the obvious. He seemed to want to say something, but he hesitated for too long.

“I can get almost anything for you, I think,” she encouraged. “Within reason. I do have a bit of pull with the cook.”

“…Soup?” he finally came out with, looking as if he expected to be chastised for it. “Stew?”

Belle smiled. She got up, taking the tray of food with her. “I’ll be just a few minutes. Why don’t you see if you can get a few more pages read?” she suggested in an attempt to distract him in her absence, and she hurried away.

“Zelda!” she called as she pushed through the kitchen door. Zelda Rampion was the hospital’s cook, and she was much beloved even by the patients who didn’t know her name. The young black woman had more or less inherited the position from her mother. Dr. Whale didn’t quite like her, for reasons he attributed to her hair - a neatly-kept but wide spiral of a bun that overtook most of the back of her head. Belle thought the excuse was thin. Dr. Whale had once used his power as administrator to have Zelda replaced. Once. And for around twelve hours, during which patients hospital-wide very nearly staged a revolt over the condition of their meals.

Zelda poked her head out from behind the door of the big wooden icebox. She took in the fact that Belle held one of her trays. “Don’t tell me something’s wrong with breakfast.”

“No, no. Well, yes. But not the food.” Belle set it on the counter. “One of my patients is having trouble eating.”

“I noticed an extra tray coming back every meal these last few days.” Zelda frowned, going back into the icebox to bring out a bottle of cream. “What can I do?”

“I need soup. Or stew. Something of the like.”

Zelda gave her an irritated, doubtful look. “You’re pulling my leg.”

“And I need it pretty fast, before he changes his mind.” Belle gave the cook what she hoped came off as a winsome smile. “Is there _anything_ you could throw together?”

Zelda went back to the icebox, bringing out a little brown stoneware lock-lid crock. “This was meant to be my dinner,” she said before prizing the wire open and taking the lid off.

Belle’s face fell. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean for you to- Zelda, you don’t have to do that.”

“If it means my trays stop coming back untouched, I’ll do just fine without it.” The cook spooned a thick, brown stew from the crock into a saucepan to heat it.

Even cold, the smell made Belle’s mouth water. “What kind is it?” she asked.

“Pork. Potatoes, carrots, onions. Some peas. If he doesn’t eat this-”

“If he doesn’t eat this, they’ll soon be putting a feeding tube down his throat.”

Zelda’s frown renewed. “Poor boy,” she sighed. The stew, quickly heating over the high gas flame, began to bubble.

“He’s in his forties,” Belle said, feeling guilty for taking her friend’s food at the same time she was glad that Zelda was willing to give it.

“That doesn’t matter,” the cook said as she poured the stew up in a bowl and set it on a plate, laying a spoon on the side. She took it over to Belle. “They’re all boys. Always will be, if they live to be ninety.”

“ _Thank you_ , so much.” Belle smiled, taking the plate.

“It’ll be thanks enough if you can get him to eat it,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “And don’t worry on it. There’s a pot full still at home on Mum’s fire. I’ll have some for dinner still, though late. Go on, don’t let it go cold.”

Belle gave her a grateful smile and hurried back to the ward. Captain Gold still sat there, wiggling his foot, but he stared at the cover of the book rather than reading it. She set the plate down on his bedside table, then sat herself down again. “Stew,” she declared with a smile.

He looked at the food and then up at her in surprise, and she knew he’d doubted she would deliver on her promise.

“Will you try some?” she asked, replacing herself on the edge of the bed. He did look as if he wanted to, and the hopeful anticipation made her antsy.

He touched the side of the bowl first, and finding it hot, picked it up by the top with wide-spread fingers, holding it in the blanket covered palm of his other hand. Belle tried not to watch too closely as he took the first bite, not wanting him to feel observed. He looked as if he had a moment of trouble as he swallowed, but she could have hurrahed when he took a second bite.

“What about Booth?” he asked again, reminding her.

“I don’t know much about him,” she admitted, smiling as he fished a piece of carrot from the thick broth. “He checked himself in a couple of months ago. Word is, he survived an attack in France, but he’s very tight-lipped about it.”

His expression had softened. He was behaving as if she were telling him a bedtime story. In a way, she supposed she was.

He poked around in the stew a bit, so slowly eating spoonfuls that after each she was left wondering if he would take another.

“What about Nurse Nolan?” he asked, having another bite after spending a few moments searching the bowl for fat little green peas. “You mentioned her attachment to Nurse Mills.”

“You won’t tell anyone these things, will you?” Belle fixed him with an almost teasing gaze, but behind her smile, she was serious.

“No secret shall pass these lips,” he came back with a small smile of his own.

“Well, she’s only given me bits and pieces of that, but from what I gather, Nurse Mills was a mother figure for Mary Margaret even before she became a nurse. I think she blames herself for Nurse Mills’ sweetheart’s death, to some degree. She said she’d been telling people so proudly of her father re-enlisting to help in the war effort, when Nurse Mills’ young man went and enlisted, too…” Belle laced her hands in her lap, settling in to continue as he ate.


	11. Horology

Beverly Lucas showed up at the hospital on a Wednesday. Nurse Lucas followed right on her heels, asking, “Granny, why didn’t you just come in _Sunday?_ Visitor’s day is established for a reason.”

“Because I don’t want to come in while half of the country is here, Ruby.” The older woman returned her granddaughter’s patronizing tone, and then some.

“Visitor’s day is to keep people from bothering the patients all week long, so it’s predictable for them.”

Nurse Lucas’ grandmother turned to look up at her, making her stop short. “I may be a good many things, Ruby Anita, but a bother is not one of them. Now, you get out of my ear and go about your own business.”

Rummond watched the nurse and her grandmother’s entrance with amused curiosity. Nurse Lucas left in a huff, and Mrs. Lucas continued farther into the ward. A few men came out of their bunks and went over to her, obviously having met her before, if the way she patted their cheeks was any indication. She opened the big, round, red tin that she’d brought in under her arm, handing something to each of the men around her before sending them off again.

The older woman began going around to the bunks that still had their occupants. He could see when she gave something to Lieutenant Tillman - they were cookies, and it seemed this wasn’t the first time she and her cookies had made an appearance.

Mrs. Lucas crossed the aisle to approach him. “You’re a new addition,” she said, reaching beneath the lid that she held half on, bringing out a pair of cookies. She narrowed her eyes at him a bit. “I feel as if I know you from somewhere.”

Rummond didn’t reach for the cookies; they hadn’t yet been offered. “I don’t believe so?” he said slowly, shaking his head. “I would remember.”

She looked over top of her glasses at him, nodding, but she held the cookies out to him. He took them and she moved on, going first to Booth’s bunk and then to Jefferson’s, where he actually heard a laugh coaxed from her.

Mrs. Lucas had worked her way around most of the ward by the time Nurse French came in to remind Jefferson of his appointment with Dr. Whale. She was scuttling him off toward the doors when Mrs. Lucas started toward Rummond’s bunk again with intent.

“I know who you are,” she said, coming to a stop next to his footlocker, holding the now empty cookie tin to her with her fingers laced in front of it. He couldn’t tell whether she was being neutral or disapproving from the tone of her voice. “Captain Rummond Gold. I’m Mrs. Beverly Lucas. I kept up with you and your entire squadron during the war. All of your boys were exceptional.”

Rummond stared up at her. How in hell did she know him and his squadron? “Aye. They were,” he murmured, and he looked down at the half eaten cookie that he held. His stomach turned, feeling cold, and suddenly he was no longer hungry at all.

“As were you. You had an exemplary record, yourself,” she went on.

“Not- not quite, apparently,” he said, the words feeling too awkward on his tongue.

“So I heard. My Ruby tells me you regularly cause a bit of a ruckus. Not that I’m surprised, you being a pilot and all, that temperament.” She grinned, but he wasn’t looking to see it. “Were all of the men under your command of that sort?” 

He felt as if he were being pulled into a tunnel, light and the space of the open room slipping away. He dropped the cookie, standing - he had to get away, get out - and she frowned at him.

“Captain Gold?” Mrs. Lucas set her tin down on the footlocker with a sharp _clang_ and he startled. “Captain Gold?” she continued.

Rummond felt a hand on his shoulder, and he flinched away from it, stumbling back from his bunk and toward the ward doors. It didn’t matter that they could see him running away this time - he just had to _get out_.

“Captain,” a man’s voice brogued, and it wasn’t a question this time. There were quick footfalls behind him, overtaking him, and then he was being blocked from the doors. He looked up to find scruff and warm eyes. Humbert had his hands held in front of him to slow his patient down.

Rummond reeled back, not wanting to be bodily returned to his bunk. “Please?” he gasped, only now realizing how short of breath he was, hoping that the orderly would understand and let him leave the ward for a while. Just for a while.

“Why don’t we go for a short walk?” Humbert suggested, lowering his hands. “It’s near time for you to see Dr. Hopper. We could take the long way around to the office.”

Nodding quickly, Rummond agreed. The orderly walked next to him, held the ward door open for him, and Rummond walked down the east wing corridor with Humbert at his side. When they got into the lobby, where they customarily turned a corner to get to Dr. Hopper’s office, Humbert reached over and touched the back of Rummond’s upper arm, just enough pressure to draw his attention as the orderly stepped left rather than continuing on through.

“Outside?” Rummond asked, still feeling a bit far away.

“It’s a sunny enough day,” Humbert said, offering him a smile. “We’ll walk across the front to the side door. Dr. Hopper’s office is right close there.”

Rummond walked out the hospital’s front doors with him, arms wrapped around himself, trying to force everything to feel _real_ again. The orderly didn’t allow him to get ahead or fall behind, but kept step right alongside him.

The sun was lovely and hot on his shoulders, and he could feel it warming his hair, doing more to soothe him than the walk itself. They passed a dense clump of sweet briar at the corner of the building, and the bright, apple scent of it filled his lungs. By the time they got around to the side door, he no longer felt as if he were crawling out of his skin. He thought perhaps this orderly knew a bit about what he was doing, after all.

Humbert took him right to the office door - something he’d been there long enough to have graduated from, for at least his last few appointments. His state didn’t quite engender the confidence that he’d have gotten there on his own, he supposed.

The orderly tapped on the door, waiting for Dr. Hopper to speak before pushing it open. “I’ll be here when you get out,” he assured.

Rummond went in and the doctor looked up before the door closed. Dr. Hopper came from behind his desk. “The watch and tools are there on the bookshelf, Captain,” he said, crossing to the door. “I’ll return in just one moment.”

He didn’t _listen_ , exactly, but he couldn’t help the few words that made it to his ears. ‘Mrs. Lucas,’ ‘about the war,’ and ‘walk helped’ left him with no doubt in regards to the subject. The doctor and the orderly lingered a bit longer at the door, speaking even more quietly before Dr. Hopper closed it and replaced himself at the desk.

Rummond carefully unrolled the leather, keeping the gears and screws from scattering. He hated going to these appointments. He felt a bit better afterward - perhaps it was simple relief that another one was over with - but the anticipation and trip down to the office, being prodded and interrogated, it was miserable, no matter how nice the doctor was to him.

Dr. Hopper let his patient begin working on the watch before he spoke, starting slowly. “You’re feeling better after some fresh air?”

“Hmf,” Rummond hummed. “Better, as it were.”

“I hear Mrs. Lucas paid a visit to the ward,” the doctor said.

“Oh, that she did. Handed out cookies and… talked.”

“She enjoys bringing sweets around to the men on your ward. The hospital doesn’t tend to supply desserts.”

“They all seem to like her well enough,” Rummond grumbled a bit.

“And you don’t?”

He set a wheel back into place and looked at the tool pouch to select the screw that fit it. “Her cookies aren’t the manna from Heaven I was led to believe.”

Dr. Hopper smothered a grin, looking down at the chart on his desk. That sounded like a quiet way to pay Mrs. Lucas back for her thoughtless questions - a slight to her baking in private. “Really? Are they not?”

Rummond looked at the doctor from beneath his eyebrows. “They were good,” he admitted begrudgingly.

“What she said upset you, though.” Dr. Hopper prodded gently, to see whether the spot of it was still sore.

“I don’t know about ‘upset,’” he mumbled, using a pair of fine-tipped tweezers to take the correct screw, and he replaced it, exchanging tools to turn it back into its seat.

The doctor didn’t push on his patient’s quibble with terminology. “But it did bother you?”

“Perhaps a bit.”

‘A bit’ seemed like a mild statement to Dr. Hopper. Graham had given him a quick rundown of the encounter. It sounded as if Captain Gold had been near full-on panic. “May I ask what she said?”

Rummond’s hand jumped, and the screw he’d only just picked up popped out from between the tweezer tips. “Damned-”

“It’s all right,” Dr. Hopper said as his patient froze, eyes scanning for the tiny screw.

“No, it is not,” Rummond said under his breath. He finally found it nearly between the sofa cushions, caught right against the piping. He sighed. If it had gone to the floor, it would have been as good as gone. “I don’t remember. Not word for word,” he lied.

“How about the gist of it?”

“She was talking about-” He hesitated, staring down into the motionless watch movement. “About my squadron. My boys. M- my reputation before.”

Dr. Hopper made a quick note regarding the Captain’s occasional stammer. It most often came about when he spoke of things surrounding the war. The more anxious he was, the worse it seemed to become. It wasn’t an uncommon development for his patients.

The doctor was quiet for a few moments, letting Captain Gold work and allowing his growing agitation to fade. For a few appointments now, Dr. Hopper had been watching how excruciatingly careful his patient was with the screws and wheels and spring, with hands that didn’t shake when he held a watch in them. It was fascinating, what could bring calm.

“Captain Gold… I would like to try talking about your father again today,” the doctor broached, and his patient’s mouth set in a firm frown as he looked on. “I realize the subject remains uncomfortable, but-”

“‘Uncomfortable’ is the least of it,” Rummond muttered. He’d heard that this talking therapy business involved discussion of one’s parents, no matter how far removed from them a patient was. He supposed he should have been prepared for it.

“Tell me something,” Dr. Hopper said after he received more silence. “To start out with. Anything that comes to mind, that you can say about him.”

Rummond fiddled longer than necessary with tightening a screw into the pocketwatch’s bridge. “I suppose he had his reasons for everything he did,” he said after another moment.

“Such as? Would you be able to give me an example?”

His hand stopped mid-reach for the crown wheel, as if it had forgotten what it was doing. An example. His head flooded with examples he would’ve liked to have kept locked away. “He-” Rummond’s mouth worked to shape words, and he finally closed it to figure out for himself what to say.

Dr. Hopper watched as his patient floundered. “It’s all right. Take your time.”

“When I was wee thing,” Rummond began quietly, coming around to one of the very first things he remembered his father doing that made him _feel_ small. His eyes stayed on the doctor’s pocketwatch, though he’d stopped reassembling. “Young enough the grocer offered me a free penny candy when we went in. People remarked on me. Ladies saying what a good boy I was, what a gentleman I was. I remember the grocer’s wife once telling my father, ‘What a lovely child.’ It felt so nice, hearing a lady say that. I’d a couple of brambles her husband had given to me, and I remember how sweet they tasted when my father _agreed_ with her and patted me on the head. But I suppose it’s just the kind of thing that people say to parents when their children are around.” 

He shook his head, his face drawing as he remembered. “We got back home, and I’d gotten some of the berry juice on my shirt.” His hand came up, fingers touching a place on the breast of his robe, just where the stain had been. He could still see the shape of it. A purple splotch, two teardrop-shaped drips below it. He didn’t realize he’d stopped until the doctor spoke.

“Something happened after you got home?” Dr. Hopper prompted gently.

“He told me the grocer’s wife was a dim bint who didn’t know a bad child from a good one. That she couldn’t because she didn’t have any herself. He told me I was a leech on every bit of the money he made, that he was done buying clothes for me, if that’s all the respect I had for them.” Rummond’s head ducked, and he picked up one of the tools, turning it between his fingers. “He set me to washing my shirt with a clump of lye soap, wouldn’t let me stop ’til I’d scrubbed the stain out. My hands hurt for days…”

It wasn’t for years that he’d understood the cheap soap his father bought had been improperly cured. His father had ridiculed him most of the night for complaining of the pain, eventually going to the neighbors to borrow vinegar to wash his hands with after finally believing him. “He never was the kindest… But I think that’s the thing broke my trust in him.”

Dr. Hopper looked on with a frown. He’d stopped taking notes, but he would remember. He remembered his own parents, and though the situation was different for Captain Gold, he still ached for his patient’s recollections. “And that was a common occurrence for you? Or became one?”

“Common enough. The older I got, the more he could find wrong. I suppose he might’ve called himself keeping me humble, if he were asked about it. He believed that - that children had to be kept humble and thankful for what they got.” Memories led to memories, and Rummond concentrated on the maker’s mark on the screwdriver in his hands. There was still a ghost of a scar on the web of his left thumb. It wasn’t as if he could get _away_ from these memories, but keeping them smothered had been working for him for twenty-some-odd years, and he resented the doctor a bit for pulling them out of the shadows.

“Leech,” he repeated, grinding the word between his teeth. It was one of his father’s particular favorites. “Lazy, shiftless, talentless. More than once, he let me know how he wished I’d never existed, in ever more crude ways, because if I didn’t, he’d have my mother, he’d have more money, and he wouldn’t be saddled with _me_.” He let the blade of the screwdriver dig into his left palm until it hurt, trying to give the pain a place that wasn’t beneath his ribcage. He didn’t hear the doctor come from around the desk.

“Captain Gold,” Dr. Hopper said, his voice soft. He squatted down next to his patient.

“I was worthless to him. _Worthless_ ,” Rummond grit out, the knowledge giving him physical pain. “I look at my own boy, and I… I don’t understand. I don’t understand. _How_ can anyone see their own child like that? How can they _say_ that to their child? My boy-” He shook his head, his voice quiet and tight. “My boy, I would do anything for him. No matter what he did. I could never say anything like that. Never. But… maybe my Papa saw something in me. Maybe he knew just what I was when he first laid eyes on me, as he said…”

“You are not worthless,” Dr. Hopper told him perhaps more fiercely than he intended, reaching slowly for the screwdriver to stop him. “Captain Gold, no one is worthless.”

Rummond’s chest ached and his eyes burned, but he closed his throat and held his breath until the feeling was crushed, unwilling to shed tears. Not here.

Feeling helpless in the face of a patient’s psychological pain was one of the worst hazards of being a psychologist, and Dr. Hopper loathed it. 

“What do you call what you’re doing with this pocketwatch, if not a talent?” the doctor asked, tapping the tool against the watch case.

“This isn’t talent,” Rummond said, shaking his head, sniffing. “Repairing a watch is mechanical. Rote memory. Knowing which bit goes where. Any fool can do it with their eyes closed, if they do it often enough.” He repeated his father’s words almost perfectly.

“Before, when I asked if you did something with your hands, you said yourself that you have a knack for clockwork.”

“I gave myself too much credit. A pilot’s cockiness.”

Dr. Hopper stood and turned to get one of the armchairs from nearer his desk, turning it around and sitting so that he could face his patient. “Flying a plane as you do takes a significant amount of talent, as well.”

“No. Memorize the instruments and how to use them, and anyone could do it.”

“Captain… When you became my patient, I asked for your military records, just as I do for all of my patients. I’ve read them inside-out. There is nothing there to tell me that just anyone could have done the things you did. The _good_ things you’ve done.” Dr. Hopper resisted getting further into those things. His patient wasn’t ready for that discussion yet, and certainly not in his current condition.

“What good I might’ve done doesn’t matter.” Rummond shook his head harder. Not anymore. There was a certain point after which ‘good’ ceased to count for anything.

“Do you mean to tell me, you never did a single thing that took more than memorization?” He _knew_ Captain Gold had, and for a fact, but he needed the man to come around to it on his own.

When the Captain didn’t answer, Dr. Hopper sighed, pushing his glasses up, but he didn’t give in. “I think you should think about that and tell me what you’ve come up with next time we meet. You should also think about the possibility that your father was wrong in a great many things.” His patient didn’t respond, but he saw Captain Gold’s eyes shift toward him for just a second.

It was getting near the end of the hour, and the Captain noticed, as well. He began putting the tools back into their little loops, and held out his hand for the screwdriver the doctor had taken from him. Dr. Hopper didn’t want to send him out with sour thoughts at the forefront of his mind.

“Why did you become a pilot?” he asked, sitting back in the armchair, making the conversation lighter.

Rummond frowned, though, not sure what the question had to do with their current line of discussion. “I was needed.”

“You were needed as a sailor, as well. Why volunteer to become a _pilot_?”

Rolling up the leather tool case and wrapping the exposed watch movement in its silk handkerchief, Rummond went quiet for long moments, considering. “I… The freedom? Being able to take to the air. Leave the earth behind. _Soar_. Out there where nothing could touch me.” He nodded slowly. “The freedom.”

The Captain might not have realized it was there, but the doctor saw an almost-smile pull at his patient’s mouth and he felt more comfortable letting him go. “I believe our time is up,” he said, rising from the chair and scooting it back into place. “I must be out of town tomorrow through Monday, but I’ll see you again on Tuesday morning, Captain Gold. If you need anything between now and then, Dr. Whale can see to it.”

Rummond took the tools back to the bookcase and set the watch on top of them before he headed for the door. Dr. Hopper followed, stepping into the hallway after him. Humbert was waiting for him, as he figured he would after the day there’d been, and the doctor turned his back to Rummond to speak to the orderly.

“Graham,” the doctor greeted with a smile. “His session wasn’t the easiest. You might inform his nurse of it?”

Humbert nodded, and Dr. Hopper reached up to pat the orderly’s shoulder before going back into his office.

They walked outside again on the way back to the east wing, once more in silence. Rummond felt at once disconnected and too heavy. He tried to walk behind, but the orderly wouldn’t let him. Humbert kept slowing his pace to bring Rummond up next to him again. He was sure he must be pale. He _felt_ pale, drained, and wanted nothing more than to curl up in his bunk for the next few hours and sleep so that he didn’t have to keep going through the vault of memories that the doctor tapped into.

When they stepped back onto the ward, Rummond was surprised to find Nurse French sitting in a chair next to his bunk. Humbert bent to speak quietly to her. The communication was short, and Rummond knew that the doctor’s message was being relayed. Nurse French nodded and the orderly went off about his business.

“I saved a couple of cookies for you,” she said with a smile, holding a small, napkin-wrapped parcel up from her lap. “I saw that you didn’t get to eat all of yours.”

“Thank you,” he murmured, and he found himself returning her smile, though wanly, as he took them. He sat on the edge of his bunk. “I thought they’d all been handed out.”

She dusted the skirt of her apron off and crossed her ankles, tucking them to the side. “I have my ways.”


	12. Best Laid Schemes Gang Aft Agley

After being caught unawares on that first visitor’s day, Rummond made further use of the hiding place he’d found for the two Sundays thereafter. Someone - Nurse French, he had to assume, since no one else had caught him - left a hospital issue pillow and blanket there for him to find. He had the same planned for the upcoming Sunday, intending to sneak off the ward when breakfast trays were being picked up and everyone was distracted.

On Saturday evening, around the time Lieutenant Tillman began seeing something and bellowing back at it, Rummond ended up with one of his spectacular headaches. It had him half blind by the time they got the Lieutenant calmed and his stitches repaired yet again, and a nurse could be spared to fetch him an aspirin. The little pill didn’t put much of a dent in it by that time. Rummond pulled the covers over his head to try and block out even the smallest points of light, but the pain kept him awake far into the night. It was only sometime after dawn that it faded enough for him to fall into an exhausted sleep.

He woke to the sounds of people. The longest period of sleep he’d managed in months, nearly five hours’ worth, and it wound up trapping him in the middle of visitor’s day. 

Rummond seriously considered keeping his blanket pulled up and remaining there, but the day had just gotten in full swing, by the sound of it, and another eight or so hours of that did not appeal. He folded the covers back and sat up on the side of his bunk, his back to most of the room, and rubbed his face. At least he wouldn’t have to see it, if they were looking at him. He reached for his robe, then for his toiletry bag, and went to the blessedly empty washroom to tend his morning ablutions.

With his headache not _completely_ gone, he moved a bit slowly, trying to keep the bright, sharp jabs of pain driving behind his eyes to a minimum. He was nearly done when someone tapped at the door, and he finished in a hurry, throwing his things back into the leather toiletry bag to be straightened out later. Booth scowled down at him as he came back out.

By the time he returned to his bunk, Jefferson’s visitors had arrived. A little blonde girl who could only be the man’s daughter had her arms clamped around his neck, and she didn’t appear to be letting go anytime soon. The blonde woman sitting on the chair next to him reached up, smoothing at Jefferson’s cowlicked hair, smiling fondly at him. A picnic basket sat on the footlocker.

Rummond didn’t _begrudge_ Jefferson the day with his family, but he certainly felt jealousy bubble up again. If he’d remembered that it was the week they drove out, he might have stayed under the blanket after all.

“Captain Gold!” Jefferson said when he saw him. He smiled more broadly than Rummond had ever seen. “Come and meet my wife and daughter. Alice, this is the Captain Rummond Gold I’ve been telling you about. And this pretty little limpet is my Grace.” He laughed, trying for a moment to extricate himself to introduce her, but gave up when she clung all the more tightly. “She’ll surface later,” he said, patting her back.

Mrs. Hargreaves turned in her chair, smiling at Rummond as he sat on his bunk again. He couldn’t get away with keeping his back to them, then. Jefferson’s wife extended her hand to him with a smile. “Mrs. Alice Hargreaves. It’s lovely to finally meet you, Captain Gold. Jefferson has such good things to say about you.”

Leaning, he took her hand for a moment, as expected in polite society. “I can’t imagine what.” Rummond returned her smile, but his brow wrinkled a bit in confusion, unsure what ‘good things’ his bunkmate could have for the telling.

“It appears you have a visitor of your own,” Jefferson said, looking past him.

Rummond’s heart sank for the split second it took him to look around, worrying in that instant over who could be there to see _him_. There were few possibilities, and none of them were pleasant. But there stood Nurse French in her uniform, hours early for her shift.

“Good morning, Lieutenant Hargreaves, Mrs. Hargreaves,” she greeted, but she parked herself on the edge of Rummond’s bunk. “I thought I might keep you company today, since I’m free until the night shift begins,” she told him. She had a small basket on her arm, and she set it beside her.

Rummond stared at her. He wasn’t sure what to say.

“You brought food?” he blurted. Not the ideal greeting, when she was doing something nice for him.

“I brought food.” She grinned at him. “Nothing too much. Sandwiches and queen cakes. But I thought we might play cards until lunch. How do you feel about gin rummy?”

He half listened as she rattled on, his confusion about her plans not clearing. She was looking at him expectantly, and he meant to tell her that gin rummy was just fine, that he knew the game, but what came out of his mouth was, “Why are you doing this?”

The excitement in her smile dimmed a little. “I thought you could use a visitor. Some distraction.”

“Plenty of the other men haven’t had visitors. Most in a longer time than I’ve been here.”

“Yes, but you’re in my assigned area of the ward,” she said, but the words didn’t come as smoothly.

Excuses. Rummond looked at her skeptically. Nothing she said was a _lie_ ; they felt more like partial truths, but it bothered him. He should have simply been enjoying it. He should eat sandwiches with her, keep his mouth shut, and appreciate not being alone for a fourth visitor’s day in a row. And yet. “Booth hasn’t had visitors. Nor has Tillman. Why bring _me_ a picnic?”

Nurse French sighed, dropping her hands into her lap. “Do you not want me here? Should I leave?” she asked, her smile fading completely. “I can find something to tend around the hospital, if you don’t want me here.”

But that wasn’t it. It wasn’t that he didn’t want her there - he didn’t understand _why_ she would be in the first place. He shook his head. “I can play gin rummy,” he finally said.

She motioned toward the bedside table. “Bring out the cards, then.”

Rummond shuffled and Nurse French dealt the first hand, and eventually, there was a little girl with blonde hair and big brown eyes watching them. The longer they played, the closer she got, until she could lean to look at their card game. Rummond groaned in frustration after Nurse French beat him three hands in a row, and Grace laughed.

Jefferson looked up from speaking with his wife to find their daughter at the other bedside. “Grace, my dear, don’t bother Captain Gold and Nurse French.”

“No… It’s all right,” Rummond said, smiling. “She’s no bother at all.”

“Well, at least introduce yourself, if you’re going to stare,” Jefferson told her, nodding to Rummond for indulging Grace’s curiosity.

The little girl stuck out one of her hands, which she had been holding politely behind her. “Hello! Grace Lorina Hargreaves. How _lovely_ to meet you,” she chirped, proud of the greeting that her mother had taught her.

Rummond held her hand gently, but she insisted on a shake. “Captain Rummond Gold, at your service, miss. And it is lovely, indeed.” His face softened in the same manner it did when he looked at the photograph of his son.

“What are you playing?” she asked, tucking her hands behind her again.

“Gin rummy. Do you play?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Do you?” she asked in return. “You’re getting trounced.”

Jefferson laughed, but his wife admonished lightly, “Grace!”

“Oh, she’s quite right. Nurse French is a consummate rummy player.” He smiled over at the nurse, and she grinned back at him.

“Grace, why don’t you come and see what we have for lunch?” Mrs. Hargreaves said, less a suggestion than a direction to get her daughter out of their hair.

Not a few minutes later, the lunch trolley came out, and Nurse French reached for her little basket. “Here, you put away the cards,” she said, “and I’ll set our picnic.”

Rummond gathered the cards from between them, turning them the right way around. He watched as she unpacked the food. “What kind of sandwiches?”

She pointed to each of the linen napkins that revealed a small stack of carefully cut and trimmed triangles of graham bread. “Chicken, walnut, and egg.”

He wrinkled his nose a bit at the egg, but the others didn’t sound bad. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of a walnut sandwich before.”

Nurse French reached into the basket and brought out a pair of delicate, rosebud pattern saucers, handing one to him. “Then you’ll try one?” she asked. “They’re my favorite.”

Rummond looked at the food, then at the hopeful expression on her face, and he agreed. “I’ll try one.”

She smiled and placed one on his saucer.

He and Nurse French were quiet as they ate, but Jefferson’s family clattered. Grace talked about school and the stuffed rabbit her father had sent her from Italy over a year back. Mrs. Hargreaves talked a bit about the seamstress work she was taking in to make ends meet, but only when her husband asked. Jefferson himself looked as if he were as close to Heaven as he could currently get.

Rummond’s attention was solidly on every bite of sandwich he ate. Once Jefferson’s family began talking and laughing, he couldn’t quite look in that direction. He wasn’t sure whether Nurse French noticed, but she continued to ply him with quarter after quarter of sandwich until they had eaten nearly the whole bunch between the two of them. Then she began pushing the queen cakes at him.

Queen cakes, he’d had before, and versions of them in a handful of different countries. What Nurse French had made, he wouldn’t have called a queen cake if asked before being told. He could tell by the weight that the cake wasn’t right, but not wishing to injure her feelings, he resolved to eat at least one. He did try, but after the first bite, he must have pulled some manner of face.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, having yet to eat one of her own, busy cleaning up the rest of the picnic.

Rummond looked at her helplessly. He _didn’t_ want to insult her, but he couldn’t swallow the bite he held in his mouth, much less finish the rest of it. He leaned to the side and reached beneath his bunk for the clean bedpan, tilting it to hide his face as he spat the bite of cake into it. 

He wiped his mouth and gave her an apologetic look. “I’m so sorry, I couldn’t-”

Her face fell, but she appeared to rally. “You’re full?” she asked. “Or you don’t feel like eating more?”

He was thankful for the answers she supplied, so that he didn’t have to tell her it was like trying to eat half-cured mortar. He simply nodded.

“We can save them for later, then,” she said, packing the cakes away, too, without trying one for herself. He wondered if perhaps she suspected how terrible they were.

“Later,” he agreed.

The rest of the day was surprisingly easy to get through. His headache faded to a point that he could almost ignore it. It wasn’t until late in the evening, after Nurse French’s shift started and she had to end her visit to see to her duties, that he began having trouble. Rummond had picked up the book that Jefferson had loaned him for need of something to do, and he managed to read continuously through perhaps a dozen pages - a small triumph in itself - when anxiety began to ball up in his belly and the words started to swim. Every sound and voice on the ward seemed amplified, setting his nerves on end. He _tried_ to push through it and keep reading, but when it took twenty minutes to get to the end of the page and he found he couldn’t recall a single word of it, he closed the book and put it away.

He turned from Jefferson’s family and reached into the bedside table drawer, bringing out the picture of his son. It didn’t help his nerves, but it helped his heart. The little picture was in need of a frame to keep it safe, but that wasn’t something he could help now.

It was a relief when people began to leave. They trickled out more slowly than they came in, though just as steadily, until it was only the priest left behind again. Near nine, he was gone, too, and the night nurses began going around with quinine. Nurse French brought his, and this time he drank it while it was still warm.

“I won’t make you eat the queen cakes,” she said with a small grin. “Unless you’ve decided that you want one?”

“No, thank you,” he said perhaps a bit quickly, and he pulled up a smile for her that he didn’t quite feel.

“Sleep well, Captain Gold,” she wished him before stepping away again.

The sedative didn’t seem to help, and Jefferson’s uncharacteristic utter silence was disconcerting. His bunkmate hadn’t said a word since saying goodbye to his wife and daughter. Jefferson drank the quinine water that Nurse French brought back to him, and he lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling. It would be another two weeks before he had a few more hours with his family. Rummond couldn’t blame the boy for being unhappy, but at the same time, he had the urge to inform Jefferson that at least he _had_ a family.

After lights out, Rummond rested on his right side, so that he could see Nurse French. She sat in her chair in the corner, as she always did Sunday nights, with the heavy book propped open with one hand behind it to hold it up. The lantern flame flickered, making the shadows around her shudder, and it threw threads of gold and copper into her hair.

The quinine finally began to have some effect, and though the damned stuff _still_ didn’t make him sleepy, it did manage to make him feel foggy and too light, and made his thoughts feel loose in his head. This he knew because among the memories that always cut into him one way or another, a warm, soft thought surfaced.

 _God, she’s beautiful_ …

The thought shocked some of the fog from him. It had been so long since someone had shown him kindness. That’s all it was, he told himself, that she had been kind to him. That’s what was igniting the affection or infatuation or whatever this was that he felt developing.

He wanted to keep looking at her, to continue thinking about her. And that was the very reason he turned away, onto his other side, and hoped for sleep to come before he had too much time to do so.


	13. Hell

The worries weighing on Belle’s shoulders had multiplied for a whole variety of reasons over the past few days.

Dr. Hopper’s trip out of town was taking longer than expected. He’d had to go into London when his mother sent for him with a message that his father was very ill. Only a few days, the doctor had assumed, and he would be back. While there, however, his father passed. Tenuousness of the relationship between himself and his parents aside, it was his responsibility to see things through. Now Thursday, he’d sent word that he would finally return on Monday. There were patients who needed him, and Belle grew more concerned every day that he was absent.

The nurses and orderlies were keeping a close eye on Lieutenant Tillman. His behavior grew more erratic and violent by the day, posing an _actual_ risk to staff (as opposed to Captain Gold, whom they continued to eye more distrustfully, and that still ate at her a bit, as well). Corporal Knight had required a visit to Dr. Whale for examination and stitches after Tillman slung his lunch plate across the ward, catching Knight near the temple with it. Not a wonderful impression on their newest patient. Belle caught herself worrying often about what the Lieutenant would do next.

Ruby and Dr. Whale were on outs because she’d brought up marriage, and Mary Margaret had quarantined herself at home for three days now because her daughter had come down with scarlet fever. And then there was the constant worry for Captain Gold that had made a home for itself in her thoughts. It was difficult, watching him seem to get a bit better, seeing him have a day or two of something akin to relief, and then witnessing as he fell into darkness again. 

She had begun taking a second 24-hour shift from Wednesday evening to Thursday evening in addition to her usual Sunday to Monday one. Belle would never admit that it was to keep a better eye on the Captain at night. She’d told Graham that she needed the occupation, and told her father and Donat that they needed the help on the ward. Neither were lies. Not completely.

First came the nightmares, and then the absence of sleep entirely; Rummond didn’t know which was worse. After three nights interrupted by terror and another two that held not a moment of sleep, he was beyond exhaustion, and his heart was skipping and doubling beats from it. He’d made the mistake of mentioning it to Nurse French, who had him swept off to Dr. Whale, who now had the nurses watching him like a hawk for signs of heart pain. He didn’t tell them that he didn’t know how he would discern it from the other pains in his chest.

Hallucinations followed on the heels of nightmares, and they grew worse the longer his insomnia went on. The blonde Austrian boy. His boys, bloody and broken, begging him for help and damning him for not being able to. Forest floor around his bunk, littered with foreign bodies. They weren’t constant, but they plagued him badly enough to raw his already frayed nerves.

He was so distressed by the mountain it was all piling up to that he didn’t realize how much more closely he was being watched.

Belle could tell by his demeanor when he was seeing things. She was sure that the upheaval of the ward must be contributing to it, and this in particular had nothing to do with Dr. Hopper’s absence, she knew. It had everything to do with whatever there was going on inside of Captain Gold. But she _did_ wish the doctor could hurry back.

She used every excuse she could find to be on the ward. He sat up in his bed, the same book open in front of him, looking into it with a thousand yard stare. He rocked so slightly that she wouldn’t have noticed had she not been staring so hard. Each day, she expected to find him withdrawn to the supply closet, but it seemed he couldn’t bring himself even to that. Today would be his third day without food, without even tea, and her worry for him grew in the pit of her stomach.

Lunchtime came and went, and he ignored his tray. Though Belle sat with him through each meal, desperately trying to encourage him to eat something, _anything_ , Captain Gold had refused even stew. But Zelda, bless her, had decided to start a pot of perpetual broth to keep on a low flame. When he turned lunch away, Belle brought a bowl of the rich broth back for him in hopes that she could talk him into eating.

He didn’t bat an eyelash when she approached to set the plate on his table, only looking up at her when she took a seat on the edge of the bed.

“Captain Gold,” she said, pleading, “If you don’t eat soon, I’ll _have_ to report it to Dr. Whale, and his solution is force feeding.”

He looked blankly at her. He was hearing her - she could tell that much - but she didn’t know whether he didn’t care or if he didn’t understand what she meant.

“Do you know what force feeding is? How they do it?” she asked, but he didn’t respond. Tired, she leaned forward with one arm across her lap and rubbed at her forehead, sighing. Knowing that she would be here for a while, she let her other elbow lean on her lap, as well, and rested her temple against her palm. She was resorting to scare tactics, and she _hated_ it. “Dr. Whale will take you into an examination room and bind you up tight with a bedsheet on the table. Orderlies will hold down your feet, your arms and hips, your head, and the doctor will spray disinfectant into your nostrils. He’ll take a rubber tube a yard long, with a funnel at one end, and he’ll thread it into your nose and down your throat, into your stomach. Then he’ll pour milk down it. You’ll be kept there and watched until they can be sure you’ve digested enough of it.”

He continued to simply look at her, though her words seemed to register. She could see as anxiety gathered in his eyes, and she felt like the worst nurse to ever don an apron, but he looked at the bowl of broth on the bedside table.

“Please?” she asked, trying to prod him as gently as possible now.

Rummond reached for it, the bowl cool enough to take in his bare hands, still hot enough to warm them through. He took the utensil from the plate’s edge and dipped a spoonful, waiting for it to drip before he took it into his mouth. There was a moment before he could swallow, but he managed, and he looked up at Nurse French after accomplishing it.

“Thank you,” she whispered, reaching out to pat his blanketed leg. The muscle tightened, flinching beneath her touch, and she placed her hand back in her lap. She watched - though not _too_ closely - as he ate, and every bite seemed forced down. 

He was two-thirds of the way through the bowl when he found he couldn’t stomach any more, stopping and setting it back on the plate. “That’s all. I can’t-” he murmured and shook his head, the broth in his stomach not feeling nearly as warm as it had going down.

“That’s all right. You put away most of it,” she said, giving him a smile. Now that he’d spoken to her, she asked, “How do you feel?”

He shook his head slowly, twitching one shoulder in what appeared to be meant as a shrug, and that was his answer. Belle waited for another moment, and she was just about to rise and take the dishes back to the kitchen when he went tense, his eyes snapping up to focus on something beyond her right shoulder.

“Captain?” she asked, unable to help turning to look. Only Tillman was there, but he was sleeping. _Oh_. He was hallucinating, then. She tried to draw his attention. “Captain Gold, would you like to go for a walk? Mr. Humbert isn’t too busy to take you outdoors.”

But it was as if she hadn’t spoken at all. Captain Gold’s hands shook. His expression changed, moving slowly from wariness to fear and… grief? She didn’t dare reach out to touch him, not when he seemed so far removed.

He startled, pulling back as if something were coming at him. “Captain?” she said more gently. He was pushing himself toward the edge of the bed. She couldn’t imagine how he felt, but she experienced a frisson of fear of her own in knowing that he could see _something_ there that she couldn’t.

Captain Gold hit the edge of the bed and fell, taking his sheet and blanket with him in a tangle. His arm banged against the bedside table as he went down, jarring it enough to send the plate and bowl toppling. The plate fell between the table and bed, shattering when it landed on its edge, and most of the bowl’s contents splashed onto the corner of the mattress before it rolled off underneath in a half circle, leaving an arc of broth on the tiles in its wake. 

Belle jumped up, following as he pushed himself against the front of the table, his eyes locked on what he was seeing in horror. She crouched in front of him, and if she weren’t so close, she would have missed him breathing, “ _No, no, no, no, no_ …”

“Captain Gold?” she tried again. He screwed his eyes shut, bringing his hands up to clamp them over his ears. 

The state he was in made _her_ eyes sting with tears.

Graham and Ruby approached from opposite directions, each staying a fair few feet back, both calling her name. “Do you need help?” Graham asked quietly.

Belle felt the entire ward stop and stare, as they always did when someone caused a commotion. She waved her friends off without looking away from her patient, relieved when she saw them move slowly away from the corner of her eye.

Ready to jump away if he lashed out, she reached to touch his arm. He trembled all over. She had things she was meant to be doing, but couldn’t just leave him like this. He whimpered and recoiled as if she were hurting him, but his eyes snapped open. He _finally_ looked at her again, lowering his hands.

“What is it?” she whispered.

The muscles of Rummond’s jaw flexed, clenching his teeth together more tightly against the question, desperate to not have to answer it.

She moved from her crouch to kneel there in front of him. “Does it help, closing your eyes?” she asked. If she could just get him to talk to her again.

He was quiet for long moments, until she was sure he wouldn’t speak, and she resigned herself to simply sitting with him until he had hold of himself well enough to get back into bed. “I can feel them there,” he mumbled eventually, shaking his head. “But I don’t have to see them, with my eyes shut.”

Belle had never asked a patient about their hallucinations. From what little she’d heard, they were like nightmares without the benefit of being banished by waking, and that in itself was a frightening prospect to her. She couldn’t help wanting to _know_ , though, what was bedeviling him so badly.

His eyes shifted slowly to look over her right shoulder, and he seemed to try and shrink further back against the bedside table. She resisted turning her head; she wouldn’t give fuel to whatever it was. It took her a few minutes to gather her courage to ask, “What is it that you see?”

Captain Gold shook his head again, eyes wide as they met hers.

“I was with the VAD for two years. I’ve seen my share of… ” She hesitated to say ‘carnage,’ but there was no gentle word for the things she’d witnessed. And she was sure that the soldiers themselves had waded through worse every day.

Captain Gold swallowed hard before he spoke. “Not like this,” he managed, his voice seeming strained.

“No, perhaps not. But I believe I can handle anything you’re willing to tell me.” Belle looked into his eyes, haunted as they were, trying to will him to trust in her. She watched his gaze shift between her face to the sight over her shoulder for a long while, as he twisted his hands in the belt of his robe.

“My boys. My squadron,” he said finally, half under his breath, his shoulders hunching inward as though protecting himself.

“What is it that hurts you so much in what you see of them?” 

A breath huffed from his lungs, and it came out something between a mirthless laugh and a sob. “They’re dead,” he told her, as if it should be obvious.

Belle wanted to reach out, to comfort him, but she didn’t want to make him startle again. “What do they do?”

He looked down at his hands, realizing how they were caught up, and began slowly unwinding them. The better for not having to meet her eyes. “They remind me I’m to blame.”

“What happened?” Nurse French asked him, leaning in a little. He’d have pulled farther back, if he could. “Why do you think you’re to blame?”

He shook his head, eyebrows drawing together in concentration to retain his composure. “Because I _am_.”

Rummond had never told anyone the fullness of it. It was in his files. Witness statements, court proceedings. He had barely been questioned - just enough to incriminate himself, and that was all they had wanted. Milah hadn’t cared to hear what he had to say, and his father had been filled in by someone, he was certain. Nurse French would hate him afterward, once she knew, and it was just as well. Perhaps she would be so disgusted with him that she would make him another nurse’s responsibility. And if she stopped placing herself in his path, perhaps he could better quash this thing he felt developing for her.

“What for?” Her brow creased in sympathy. “Captain Gold, if you’re willing to talk, I’ll always listen.”

Unwound from their accidental bindings, his hands sought something to do. He pulled his robe more tightly around him, and his left hand performed that small rubbing gesture that she wondered about.

“They died in Germany, all of them,” he said eventually, after shifting his eyes toward Lieutenants Hargreaves and Booth, as if making sure they didn’t listen. He seemed to have made his mind up to try and talk about it, at least.

Belle remained still, hoping that if she did, he would continue on. Her patience was rewarded with a quiet but clear Scottish lilt.

“The first just as we started out on foot. I didn’t know there were mines - we hadn’t had reports of them in the area. But I knew the signs. I should have ch- I should have _checked_ ,” he choked off, his eyes darting back and forth over the strip of tile between them. He raised a hand to his mouth, and it muffled his words. “I knew the odds every time we took to air. P- pilots haven’t got the longest shelf life. But there’s a difference between knowing and holding a boy while the light goes out!”

When his other hand came up over the first, nails digging into the flesh over his thumb as his eyes grew wilder, Belle reached to touch his arm. If she startled him, then so be it, but she couldn’t sit by as he drove right into panic without trying to pull him away.

He flinched so hard the table behind him rattled, and his eyes snapped up to her. She saw Lieutenant Hargreaves look over, and she shook her head at him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-” Belle whispered. “Captain? Would you like to go to the supply closet? Would you feel better there?”

Rummond recoiled. “No,” he said, though he _wanted_ to. “No, I won’t run. I won’t run.”

Nurse French gave him a reassuring smile. “I know you won’t run. It isn’t running, to go to a place that gives you comfort.”

He shook his head. “People are looking.”

“You don’t have to sneak out,” she assured him. “I’ll take you. No one will think a thing about it.”

After some hesitation, he ducked his head in a single nod. She knelt up and then stood, reaching down to offer him help, but he shied away from her. He hooked his arm over the edge of the mattress and levered himself to his feet.

“I’ve made a mess,” he said, frowning at the broken plate and broth on the bed and floor.

“It’s all right. One of the orderlies will tend to it. That’s what they’re here for.”

Belle walked confidently into the hallway with Captain Gold, as if she were accompanying him to an appointment. She was thankful that the hallway was empty; she didn’t want to have to lie to anyone about where they were going. Nurse Mills typically had a couple of hours in her office with paperwork at this time of day, and Belle hoped her superior wouldn’t decide to take an impromptu break.

She let them into the supply closet and shut the door behind her as silently as possible. By the time she stepped into the back of the room, Captain Gold was pulling a blanket and pillow from its hiding place behind the linens boxes. He gave her a sheepish smile that didn’t quite make it to his eyes in gratitude for the items and began arranging them in the corner.

Belle tugged a corner of the blanket out to sit on, rather than perching on a box, so that she wasn’t looking down at him. Fixing her uniform skirts around her legs, she took a piece of peppermint candy from her apron pocket and offered it to him. He took it, and she let him simply occupy his hands by playing with the wrapper ends without pushing him to eat it.

She gave him a while to be calm before asking, “Can you start from the beginning?”

And it was a while longer before he could speak.

“They called me Papa. All of them,” he told her with a pained smile. “Kendrick started it, and it caught on with the rest. Kendrick, Honeysett, McCrory, Wright, Bowen, Collingwood, Ellis, Yates, Thacker, Fuller, Stacy, Eldridge…” He recited their names as if they were carved into his heart.

“There were twelve in your squadron, besides you?” she asked when he went quiet.

He nodded. “Good boys, all. I didn’t brook with the things some of the others let their squadrons get away with. My boys didn’t go on drunks. They didn’t take advantage of girls in their off hours. They didn’t give civilians grief. Each and every one, they knew they’d have trouble of their own, if I found out.”

There was a pride in his voice for them that she was pleased to hear. “Those sound like excellent policies.”

“I ran a tight ship, and they were better for it. Mine were some of the best pilots there were, for the discipline.”

“I have no doubt of it,” Nurse French smiled.

“We’d a mission two days before, and it- it went like clockwork,” he said more quietly, his tone returning to the weary, heavy one she was accustomed to hearing. “Perhaps I was too cocky. If I’d been m- more careful…” His mouth thinned into a line as he pressed his lips together, squashing one end of the candy’s paraffin paper wrapper out flat then crushing it narrow again, over and over.

“The next didn’t go so smoothly?”

A strangled laugh broke from his throat. “The last. _My_ last.” The last for his entire fucking squadron. He clenched his hand around the peppermint. His chest ached.

Belle allowed him a few moments of quiet, fishing a piece of treacle toffee from her apron, not in the mood for something _too_ sweet. “Would you be willing to tell me about it?” she asked eventually.

He continued playing with the wrapper, very carefully not looking at her. “We were flying high, headed for Dresden. The day was fine for a mission - enough clouds to camouflage us from being seen by the ground, not too many to be a hindrance. It was _cold_ , but it’s always cold when you’re up there.”

“That’s why you have the heavy uniforms, the lined jacket and cap,” she said. She’d thought it must be something like that, with the clothing she’d seen on pilots.

Rummond nodded. “We weren’t even close, when they popped into sight. We were less than an hour over the line. They had to’ve been _looking_ for planes c- coming in.” His stomach tightened against what little he’d managed to eat. He really was telling her this. “It was a dogfight as soon as they came through the clouds. I c- could hardly see through the castor oil spraying back from the engine. I had my scarf up over my face to catch it before I could inhale or swallow most.” Talking about it now, he could still _feel_ the silk of it sticking to his face. “But it coated my g- goggles. I kept having to use the end of my scarf to wipe it away, to clear my vision.”

He took a breath, trying to calm himself, trying to make the stammer go away. All too aware of how she watched him as she listened, he pulled nervously at the candy wrapper end with his fingernails. “The German planes were coming up too close on the right and from behind, looking for advantages. I had to make a left turn, and the engine, damned gyroscope that it is, was an utter bastard to t- turn. Right turns in a dogfight are a blessing - the plane glides into a right turn like a bird - but left turns are hell. Slower, plane tries to pull its nose up. They take a damn lot of muscle to execute.”

Belle could tell that he was getting lost in the memory, if by no other way than by the fact that he swore in her presence. It didn’t _offend_ her, but it was strange to hear them coming from him. Her heart beat more quickly just listening. She couldn’t imagine what it was doing to him, having to relive it.

“When I got myself turned around, fixed my position, I looked back. They had us outnumbered by half, b- but we were more than holding our own, took down two of their planes in s- in _seconds_.” His expression darkened. “But something changed. Faster than I could see, s- something changed. Three of my boys, their p- planes were destroyed in formation. An instant, and they were blown to smithereens. One of the Germans made a s- suicide run, collided with Honeysett head-on. Pieces of the planes hit three more of my boys. I saw a wing with German markings smash right through Fuller. Bowen was gone when one of them managed to hit his bomb rack. Debris hit Stacy’s propeller and he went down like a lead balloon, no time t- to _react_. More sliced off Thacker’s upper wings, t- took off his- his-” He grit his teeth so hard that his jaw ached, at the memory so vivid he could still see Thacker’s blood painting the Dolphin’s rudder as it went into a spinning nosedive.

Belle stared at him openly as he spoke. To have _watched_ so many of his squadron die there in front of him, where he could do nothing to stop it… She watched his chest rise and fall in another stretch of silence.

“The higher ups, they discouraged putting parachutes on our planes, you know,” he said, and she had to strain to hear him. “They believe it’ll encourage pilots to abandon their planes in emergencies, rather than keeping up the fight. I scrounged up parachutes for my boys myself, though. I wanted them to be safe.” He shook his head slowly. “We got them all. Sent them s- straight to hell. But our planes were unsalvageable. We were all losing altitude, Wright was f- fighting to keep his from going into a tailspin. Kendrick, Yates, Wright, Collingwood - they parachuted out. I went after them.”

Captain Gold trailed off again, and Belle said by way of urging him to continue, “And you landed inside Germany.”

“Yates’ p- parachute failed. I found the other three, and we found Yates a half m- mile away.” His frown pulled more deeply at the corners. “We c-couldn’t take the body. I took one of his id- dentification d- d-” He pounded his fist against his knee in frustration at the stammer’s persistence, and forced the words out carefully. “ _Identification discs_.”

She wanted to tell him that he didn’t have to worry over his speech, but she wasn’t sure whether drawing attention to it would make him all the more uncomfortable.

“I knew approximately where we were. There was a farm a day’s walk at a good c- clip. The owner was a spy for the Italians. We’d’ve had shelter until someone could be sent to retrieve us. There was forest some miles ahead, and we headed for it. Better forest than walking in the open, but open was all there was for a ways. We stayed off roads, crossed fields. C- Collingwood stepped on an anti-tank mine…” Rummond’s shoulders pulled in against the visceral memory of it. “It was s- _so close_. I don’t know how it d- didn’t kill us _all_. It knocked us to the ground, covered us in dirt and- and- and _him_ ,” he gasped. He felt the urge to wipe at his face, feeling it all over again, sticky and hot. It had taken him until he’d seen Kendrick’s and Wright’s faces to understand what was on them. 

“My ears buzzed so… My head felt as if it were being split by an axe for d- days after.” The headaches he got now were similar, though the intensity wasn’t quite as bad. “I thought I should look for his d- discs, but there was nothing left of him. I couldn’t find them. We had to go on.”

Belle wondered if it had been a wise idea after all, pushing him into telling her, taking him off the ward to talk about it. He had been so distressed lately, and she could see the pain and anxiety in him now, ratcheting higher and higher. Surely Dr. Hopper should hear this; would Captain Gold even be willing to tell the story twice? She found herself fretting with the hem of her apron as she worried and listened.

His hands shook as he shredded the paraffin paper, the peppermint falling unnoticed to the blanket. “I was more careful. I w- walked out ahead, kept my eyes sharp as I could manage. We made it into the forest. I thought we were safer. We got a mile into the trees. A mile or so. Quiet as church mice, we were, after-” He hesitated, his mouth trembling until he pressed it shut again for a moment. “And a g- good thing. We ran across soldiers camped. A half dozen Austrians. Looked like they’d stopped to eat. By the time we saw them, we were too close to not be seen ourselves, if we moved. We couldn’t advance or find another path… Wright whispered at me, ‘Papa, what do we do?’”

Captain Gold’s voice sounded so broken. Belle held onto handfuls of her apron to keep herself from reaching out to him.

“And that was it. I saw it when one of the Austrians’ p- posture changed. But not a one of them was holding their guns. I didn’t have time to think. I knew what I had to do and I- I knew I could do it. My boys were right behind me, but I didn’t g- give them time enough to do anything. I ran in.” He felt cold through to his bones, _seeing_ it play out as if he were there again, and he shuddered. “Had my b- bayonet out before I took the first step. Had it in the nearest soldier b- before they c- could turn their heads. I put five down with the knife; Wright shot one coming up on my back. Last soldier, he got to his gun before I g- got to him. He g- got one missed shot off and his gun clicked, j- jammed, and he had this _horrified_ look when I came at him. I got him in the face. He c- couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Blade stuck in his eye socket. I couldn’t p- p-” He buried his face in his hands. “I couldn’t pull it out.”

“They were all so _young_. Younger than any of my boys. I was just standing there, looking at them, the ch- _children_ I’d murdered. And I saw - six boys, seven trays. There was a twig snap, and then gunfire. I flinched. Cowered,” he confessed. Shame carved into his features. He’d felt so _slow_ all of a sudden. “Wright got a bullet between the eyes. One hit me in the leg, and I went down. I saw Kendrick shot just as I got my sidearm from the holster. I hit the last one in the heart, but… Kendrick. It took him a while to die. I sat and held him. He had a little girl, just about the same age my Neal was. He called her name.” Rummond hiccupped a sob, trying to smother it.

Belle didn’t know how long she’d had her hand clamped over her mouth, or how long tears had been dripping over her fingers, but the yoke of her dress above her apron was wet and cold against her skin with them.

“Not a man over thirty among them,” he said, his breath joining his hands in shaking. “All g- gone in the blink of an eye. If I’d pulled my gun a second faster, they’d still be alive, home with their f- families…”

She choked back the lump in her throat, forcing her hand away from her face. “Captain Gold, you can’t know that.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I _know_.”

He felt that cramping wave that threatened to send food up, and he stopped, squeezing his eyes shut, pulling in deep, uneven breaths.

Belle reached out, placing her hand on his arm, unable to restrain the gesture any longer. “Captain,” she spoke softly. “It’s all right-”

He pulled away from her, pressing his back against the shelf behind him. “It’s n- _not_ all right,” he gasped, raising his hands to comb his fingers back through his hair, tugging at it until it hurt before letting go, his hands going limp at the sides of his neck.

“I meant to say, it’s all right if you can’t finish telling me,” Nurse French said, drawing her hand back out of his space.

Then she _was_ disgusted. He’d gotten this far into telling her, though. He might as well finish. She’d see him for what he was. “The m- man at the farm heard gunshots and came looking. I begged him not to c- call my location in, to let me heal up and leave. All I wanted in the world was to get back to my son. But he reported my whereabouts, w- wouldn’t let me leave. It took two weeks for someone to come in to retrieve me. I’d no p- proper medical treatment beyond the farmer’s wife w- washing the open wounds in my leg. By that time, it was infected. I was d- delirious with fever - I don’t remember everything. I remember the men transporting me back. They said they had no pain killers, called me a c- coward when they thought I slept. To be fair, they were right.”

“And your leg?” she asked carefully, knowing his hesitance to even let the injury be seen.

He shook his head. “A d- doctor worked on it, did a bit of surgery, repaired it as well as he could. Shattered fibula, fractured tibia, there wasn’t much they could do. I refused t- traction, but with it or no, there was heavy scarring inside and out. The RFC shipped me back to London to stand t- trial. They called the farmer and his wife as witnesses.”

Belle wiped at her cheeks and smoothed wrinkles from her apron, where she’d held handfuls balled up in her fists. So that was what Captain Gold was carrying around, what he had been blaming himself for. She looked at him, the abject misery he was in, twisting the knife in himself. She was overcome with the desire to take him into her arms, and she clasped her hands tightly together to keep herself from it.

“But you were found innocent,” she said, a small, encouraging attempt at a smile on her face.

“I was found not guilty,” he rasped, nearly choking on the words. “There’s a d- difference. And only because my father stepped in, at that.” Found not guilty of cowardice and desertion _only_ after his father intervened, pulling those bloody, ubiquitous strings to manipulate the verdict. “I should have died.”

She knew how many of the men felt such a way, but she was aghast that he would voice it. “Don’t say that,” she whispered.

“I was meant to look after them.”

“Captain…” Belle shook her head. “They were military. Grown men in their own right. Not children. You were meant to _lead_ them.”

“Not straight into being butchered! They were my boys,” he insisted vehemently. “They were my responsibility. All save one had their own families - wives and children mourning them, and it’s on my head. Blood on _my_ hands.” He stabbed his fingers at his breastbone so hard she heard the thump of it. “My boys, the boys in the forest-”

“They were soldiers, as well.” 

“They were children.”

“They were the enemy,” Belle attempted to remind him.

“ _He was a terrified child!_ ” Captain Gold roared, and Belle was the one who startled now, leaning away from him.

She understood then exactly which of the Austrian boys haunted him. And she realized that the father in him saw them all as little boys. “Any man would defend himself, Captain Gold. That’s all you were doing - defending yourself, defending your boys.”

He shrunk away from her, tucking himself into the corner as small as he could. “I’m not a man.”

“Captain-”

“My boys were killed, all of them. While I cowered.”

Belle made a pained, sympathetic sound, and reached out to lay her hand behind his rounded shoulder.

He didn’t flinch, but he tried to shrug away from her touch. “I’m no man. If I ever was, no longer.”

Belle stood, taking her hand away. It did no good to argue with him, she could see. His hands shook as they wrung themselves, as if he tried to get something off them. 

“It’s nearly teatime,” she said before moving toward the door. She would bring a bowl of broth for him and a tray for herself, hoping to be able to get him to eat something of substance. She hadn’t the heart to make him go back to the ward just yet.

Rummond closed his eyes, turning his face away from her. He’d succeeded in alienating her, then. _Good_. But being relieved for it didn’t explain why the thought of never speaking with her again caused further grief to flood him. 

Belle frowned. He didn’t seem to have heard her, but she could hear him murmur to himself as she stepped from the supply closet. “I’m no man. No man… I’m a monster.”


	14. Supply Closet Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Because I realized there needs to be a bit more between chapter thirteen and the next, to avoid a gap in information. So here, have a quick, slightly less angsty interlude.)

After she was gone, he pulled the pillow from behind him. He held it close, resting his head at one end and wrapping his arms around the middle, lying down on his side. He thought he would stay there until nearer lights out. It would mean avoiding having to deal with a dinner tray, with the additional benefit of being out of Nurse French’s hair completely until her shift was over.

Not many minutes later, the door rattled. He sat up quickly, feeling a jab of panic. If someone caught him there, his hiding place would be forfeit. Some days, having the place to retreat to felt like the only thing preserving his sanity. The supply closet door opened, and a moment later clicked shut again. If he were lucky, it would be Humbert. He didn’t think Humbert would report him. But since when had _he_ been lucky?

Nurse French came around the end of the center shelving. He stared up at her, too stunned to reach when she held a bowl out to him, having foregone the plate beneath this time.

“Captain Gold?” she said after a moment of his fixed gaze. “I brought food back. Wouldn’t you-”

“Why did you come back?” he asked softly. She’d gone. She had left him in revulsion. Hadn’t she?

She looked at him curiously, but she smiled, setting the bowl and tray in her hands on one of the boxes when he didn’t respond to her offer. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“I thought-” He shook his head. “You left. After...”

“Only to get something for tea,” Belle said, taking her seat on the blanket again. It dawned on her that he thought she had walked away as result of his story. She _had_ ducked into the nurse’s privy to wash her face and compose herself, and perhaps that had taken longer than intended, but she’d never thought to just leave him. Not after seeing what it took out of him to go through the seemingly simple act of telling her what he had.

“I have more broth for you. And tea, obviously,” she told him, setting one of the cups that sat on her tray next to his bowl. “If you want them. I brought back chicken sandwiches for myself.” She’d brought a pair of sandwiches, thinking she _might_ talk him into eating a bit of one. It didn’t hurt to have the extra, just in case.

Rummond picked up the bowl, holding it against his chest to soak up the warmth. “Thank you,” he said, glancing over at her in gratitude that had nothing to do with the food.

“I thought we might go back to the ward afterward. But for now…” She smiled up at him, taking the spoon she’d set on her tray and balancing it across the top of his tea cup.


	15. Taking Blame

Rummond couldn’t help but wonder whether Nurse French had a talk with Dr. Hopper, after all that he told her. He knew that doctors must keep such things to themselves, but did nurses have a similar code to work by? He wasn’t _ready_ for the kinds of questions the doctor would certainly have, and he hoped that the nurse knew to keep his confidence.

Ten minutes, he had been on Dr. Hopper’s office sofa, fiddling with the last unassembled bits of the pocketwatch, anticipating any moment to be asked about it. The doctor, however, sat quietly and scribbled his way through a small stack of files that sat next to his blotter, transferring each to a stack on the opposite side of the desk. 

Rummond’s appointment was the first of the day upon the doctor’s return, and he could hear a couple of song thrushes somewhere in the trees near the window. Much as he disliked attending these sessions, he begrudgingly admitted - though only to himself - that it was okay in this room when it was quiet. It didn’t smell like disinfectant, as the rest of the hospital did, and it didn’t feel… hollow. 

He worked on replacing the regulator, turning its screw carefully back into place, and doing what he had been doing quite a bit of and yet shouldn’t have been - thinking about Nurse French. He’d been so sure that she was done with him, and in spite of that mean little voice inside declaring that it was only a matter of time, he found some odd relief that she wasn’t, despite his attempt.

Dr. Hopper at last set the files aside and looked up. “Did you think about what I suggested at the end of our previous session?”

“What was that?” Rummond asked, though he remembered precisely what the doctor had asked of him.

A patient smile slipped through on the doctor’s face in response to Captain Gold’s facetious reply. “Your talents, the good you’ve done. Let’s begin there.”

Rummond’s hands faltered at their work as his more peaceful train of thought was intruded upon. “I don’t- I-”

Dr. Hopper’s smile turned into one more somber. “You know,” he began, falling back to a less direct method, since Captain Gold seemed to respond better. “I had a conversation with an old friend during the week I was away. He knows clocks and watches rather well, and according to his forty-some-odd years of experience, not just anyone can pick up a set of watchmaker’s tools and expect to repair clockwork.” He regarded his patient closely, waiting to see if that sank in.

Rummond looked at the screwdriver in his hand - the same the doctor had taken from him during their last appointment. He turned his head just enough to see the doctor more than peripherally.

“According to my friend Marco, it takes a great deal of dexterity. And while memory is helpful, a talent for it must be nurtured by the watchmaker,” Dr. Hopper continued once he saw that he had won the Captain’s attention. “It’s an art. That’s word from a man who has built and repaired likely thousands of watches in his day.”

“Perhaps,” Rummond acceded, and he finished tightening the screw and exchanged screwdriver for tweezers. He entertained the idea; it _could_ be true, couldn’t it? He had brought some sad excuses for movements back into working order, and sometimes better than they’d started out new. For the first time since he was a little boy fiddling with repairs in his father’s shop, he felt a small spark of pride in it. The spark fizzled under the memories of his father that resided alongside.

But Dr. Hopper _saw_. He saw the momentary change in the way his patient held himself, and though it passed quickly, it was _progress_. He’d planted a seed, and he would let it lie for now while he poked at something else. “I asked you to think about the good things you’ve done, as well. Do you have any thoughts you would mind sharing on that front?”

“‘Good things,’” Rummond scoffed softly, and held his breath as he picked up the watch’s click spring, laying it carefully into place with a steady hand. He continued, his tone darkening, “Good things I’ve done? I’ve hurt more people than I can count. No amount of ‘good’ can erase that.”

He knew each parent and wife and child of the boys he let die by name - every person they’d spoken of from back home. But foreign soldiers in the air and on the ground, the people they’d dropped bombs on, he would never be able to assign them anything but vague knowledge of their existence, and that haunted him as much as any hallucination. It was sin compounded with sin, and there wasn’t enough repentance for it.

“But you _have_ done good things? You’ve helped people?” Dr. Hopper asked, hoping to hear his patient admit to that much, if nothing more there during today’s session.

Searching the surface of the tool case for the right screw, Rummond tried to keep his face straight while his stomach lurched. “I tried,” he said. “All I could do was try.”

“You have no examples you would care to give me?”

“None that I can think of,” he told the doctor honestly. He knew, intellectually, that he had done decent things in his life. Even during the war. But however much he racked his memories, all he could manage to dredge up was misery after misery.

“You can find _nothing_?” Dr. Hopper asked, but Captain Gold only shook his head. The doctor didn’t allow himself a sigh, but he felt it. “Can you continue working on that, then? Coming up with something?”

“I’ll do my level best,” his patient mumbled with some reluctance, leaning closer to the watch while turning the click screw. 

The doctor made a note in the corner of the page to himself and a longer one in the body of the file. He turned to a clean page, so that it wouldn’t be so conspicuous during the next matter he intended to broach. The last time they spoke, Captain Gold had alluded to punishment doled out by his father going more than a bit overboard, and the more Dr. Hopper thought it over, the more it nagged at him. Captain Gold’s self-loathing had deep roots completely independent from his shell shock, though the way he saw himself certainly fed into it. But to treat his injuries stemming from the war and not the rest would do him few favors; like trying to kill a weed by simply lopping off the top, it might flourish all over again.

“I would like to go back to the subject of your father for a while,” he said, casting a sympathetic smile in the Captain’s direction as he visibly tensed. “A particular area of the subject, if you feel comfortable enough getting into it again?”

There was nothing comfortable about this, but Rummond didn’t mutter the thought aloud. “Which particular area, then?”

“When we spoke about your father before, I was left with the impression that his… disciplinary methods left something to be desired.”

Rummond’s throat felt as if it might close itself up. “You could say that.”

“Would you be willing to go back into those memories, discuss it a bit more in depth?” Dr. Hopper asked.

He didn’t _want_ to. He’d been doing a fair job of cramming everything the doctor had dragged out back behind its door. But he couldn’t gainsay that talking about it had given him some degree of catharsis. Until he’d given in and spoken to Dr. Hopper about it, no one else knew anything of what his father had said or done to him. And not having that remain a perfect secret? It had eased a weight he’d carried for so long that he had forgotten how heavy it was.

After turning it over in his mind, Rummond nodded, though he didn’t know where to go from there. Blessedly, the doctor again spoke first.

“You related one specific memory of his behavior toward you. Did he do things to hurt you or cause you harm before that?”

Rummond shrugged one shoulder, replacing one screwdriver in its loop with careful, deliberate motions, and taking another the next size down. “Nothing purposeful before the soap, I think,” he said, inspecting the tool in his hands more closely than necessary. “He said things that-” He shook his head again. He’d talked about that; he didn’t want to hear them aloud again. 

“My father was a drunkard - he’d been for as long as I can remember. There were nights I stayed with neighbors because he didn’t come home, or because I was too frightened to stay there with him.” Rummond smiled a little shakily, remembering the pair of ladies who had encouraged him to call them each ‘Auntie.’ He hadn’t learned what a Boston marriage was for quite a long time, not until an American man on his ship a few years after he’d run off with the navy had made some obscene remark about it.

Dr. Hopper asked, “Did your father strike you?”

“Strike me?” Rummond blinked. “He- he disciplined me, if that’s what you-?”

“I mean beyond discipline.”

Captain Gold looked at him as if he didn’t understand.

Developing a quick bit of inspiration, the doctor asked, “Do you strike your son?”

“No!” Rummond snapped, hurt by the very idea.

Dr. Hopper nodded. The reaction was much what he expected. “Why not?”

“I’d _never_ harm my boy.”

“So, when your father struck you, it was discipline. But if you had struck your son, it would be harming him? What makes the difference there, Captain?” Dr. Hopper continued, wondering how those conflicting views coexisted.

Rummond looked down, struggling with it. “My son is a good boy,” was what he came up with. “He’d never deserve to be struck.”

Dr. Hopper looked at his papers, since Captain Gold wasn’t watching him, and made a quick note. He didn’t manage to hold back a quiet sigh this time. It came back around to his patient seeing himself as intrinsically ‘bad,’ then. “Do you consider, perhaps, neither did you?”

Captain Gold’s brow furrowed, and he frowned. Considering such a thing _was_ a novelty to him, it appeared. 

“I wasn’t an easy child,” he murmured. ‘Impossible to love,’ was the way his father had put it.

“Can you give me an example of a time during which you feel that you deserved being struck?” Using the word ‘deserve’ put a sour taste in Dr. Hopper’s mouth, but he thought it was what his patient would understand, the frame of mind he presented.

There were so many occasions on which his father had punished him physically, they bled together, most of them, but he could pick out a few of the more vivid incidents. “There was a time I spoiled a sale for him. A woman asked him to set aside a mangle so that she could come in for it the next week. I heard him give her his word it would be there when she came back, and when a man came by asking about it, he offered it up right away. I reminded him of the woman and… Well, it was inappropriate, I suppose. He rapped me round the ears for it. I learned not to interfere with customers.”

Dr. Hopper didn’t even attempt to hide the frown on his face. “How old were you at the time?”

“Eight,” Rummond said, thinking back. It was one of the years he’d been able to attend school nearly every day the doors were open. “I was eight. Around the same time, a year or so, I think, I scoured our place from ceiling to floor for liquor. He’d been on a drunk, and...” He pressed his lips together for a moment against that particular part of the memory. “Well, I took it upon myself to pour it all down the drainage stream out back of the house. He ‘struck’ me,” Rummond said, using the clean, sanitized word that the doctor had started them off with. It was the first time he remembered his father truly beating him for anything.

“Can you remember circumstances for which you _didn’t_ believe you deserved the punishment he inflicted?” the doctor asked, and Rummond heard an odd tightness in the man’s voice.

It didn’t take him long; moments like those were nearer the surface, always sore spots. One hand drifted to his mouth automatically as he remembered the mug his father had hurled at his face. The scar on his upper lip and tiny crack in one of his lower incisors held lingering proof of it. “He accused me of lying about opening the shop once when he’d been too drunk the night before to get out of bed the next morning.”

“How old were you?” Dr. Hopper asked, understanding more in seeing the way his patient touched his face than came out in words.

“Nine, then. There was a time he backed me into a corner with his razor strap over a missing dollar. It was during a period when every cent he got, he gambled or spent on liquor. We rarely had food in the house. I took a dollar I’d earned over the course of a few weeks of running packages back and forth across town for the butcher, and I bought cans of soup to squirrel away under my bed. My father found it and decided it was evidence that I’d thieved from him.” He hadn’t stolen it, but it hadn’t taken him long to apologize and beg forgiveness as if he had. That one hadn’t left permanent scars.

He felt like a child again, as the memories poured back through him. The hurt and betrayal of the _one_ person who’d been supposed to love him the way he loved Neal was so fresh, it felt as if it could bleed.

“Could you imagine ever treating your own son in such a way? Even if he’d lied or stolen? Even if he’d thrown away something you deemed important or ‘interfered’ in business affairs?” Dr. Hopper asked, doing his best to illustrate to Captain Gold how unacceptable his father’s treatment of him was.

“Never,” he said with a sharp shake of his head, and he couldn’t miss the expectant rise of the doctor’s brows. “Perhaps he was a bit harsh,” Rummond conceded.

It was _something_ , but Dr. Hopper thought his patient had caught on as he’d hoped. “It’s getting near the end of our time,” he said. “Unless you have anything you would like to bring up, I think it would be all right to spend these last few minutes in quiet.”

Rummond said nothing, but leaned over the pocketwatch again, and after a few moments, resumed his work.

There were only two minutes left, according to the table clock, when Dr. Hopper looked up from fleshing out his notes. “Has Nurse Mills, ah, caused you any bother recently?”

Rummond glanced up at the doctor, a bit surprised by the question. “Not recently, no.”

Dr. Hopper nodded, looking down again, straightening the edges of the papers. “Good. That’s good,” he said under his breath. The head nurse’s behavior weeks prior was another thing that managed to continue nagging at his thoughts. 

“You can go, if you like,” Dr. Hopper said, his paperwork pausing as he watched his patient.

“Another moment or two,” Rummond murmured in distraction. 

He carefully set the movement back into its case, and taking the oil, placed the tiniest drop into each of the watch’s oil sinks - _just_ enough to be held there with surface tension - and he watched to be sure that it held on. Too much, and every bit of it would run back out, wasting the oil and requiring a cleaning before more could be added properly.

Slowly over the course of the session, Rummond had replaced the very last of the pocketwatch’s components and screws. He looked down at the movement and wound the watch, satisfaction bringing a bit of a smile to his face when it whirred cheerfully along. He clicked the back shut and rolled up the tool case, going over to place both on the doctor’s desk.

“Your watch,” he said, setting the pocketwatch to the right of Dr. Hopper’s papers.

“All finished?” the doctor asked, picking it up and opening the door onto the watch face.

“Taken care of, it shouldn’t need servicing for a good few years.”

“Thank you,” Dr. Hopper told him with all sincerity.

“It was nothing.” Rummond shrugged.

“It was far from nothing,” the doctor said, smiling up at his patient. “Captain Gold?” Dr. Hopper called as his patient headed for the door.

Rummond turned back, hand on the door handle.

“Did you know there are organizations that advocate against child cruelty, now?” Dr. Hopper asked, and his patient looked up at him with wide eyes. “They’ve one in Scotland. There’s an Act of Parliament in place for it, as well.”

“No,” Rummond said quietly, with a slow shake of his head. “I didn’t know. That- that’s a good thing, it’s been done.”

“A very good thing,” Dr. Hopper agreed, giving his patient an understanding smile.


	16. Saved Not by Faith but by Acts Alone

The way he hated himself made her heart ache.

Belle had seen servicemen come through the hospital with some spectacular self-loathing. Oftentimes it was the nature of the injury, and the stigma of it in society helped none at all. But the level that came off Captain Gold in waves was painful to witness.

“I can’t figure him out,” she fretted, only partially to herself. She’d caught Graham adding supplies to the shelves and stepped in for as private a chat as anyone could get in the hospital.

“You have an entire ward of nurses and most of the patients with you on that sentiment, I believe.” Graham touched each steel irrigation syringe as he counted, and marked the number down.

Belle looked at him sidelong. “And how do you know who I mean? I didn’t call a name.”

“You didn’t. Though, I’m not blind.” He grinned without looking back at her. “Then there’s the matter of you talking about Captain Gold more than you discuss the rest of the men on the ward put together.”

“I mean figuring him on a smaller scale. Other things, I’ve caught onto. His eating - well, lack thereof - the hallucinations, the nightmares. I’ve seen those before.” She leaned against the shelf next to Graham, looking toward the corner into which the Captain always retreated. “But he has some issue with being touched, I think. Several times, I’ve offered my hand to him to help him up from the floor, and he refuses. I’ve seen him shake hands, though.”

“It’s different, shaking hands. Shaking hands is just proper manners.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. That’s true. Hm.” She frowned thoughtfully, fiddling with the order that the different widths of gauze rolls were shelved in before Graham got to them.

He noted another number. “The trauma in some of the men, being touched is a painful thing. The flinches - you’ve seen them.”

“I have. I know. He does that, too, sometimes.” Belle looked down at her shoes, watching the way the artificial light of the electric bulb overhead made a dull shine on the toes. “But not always. Sometimes he just… pulls away.”

“Well, aside from the flinching reaction, I would say he doesn’t want to be touched.”

“It looks like that, but I think you’re wrong.”

“He shies away. Reach for his arm to help him, he’ll pull back and stumble before he’ll allow someone to steady him. He’s done it to me, too. I don’t believe he means a slight by it, Belle.”

“I don’t think it’s that he doesn’t _want_ it at those times.” She shook her head. “I think it’s that he feels he doesn’t deserve it.”

Graham paused in his shelf-stocking and turned to look at her. “You think it runs that deep?”

Belle raised her eyebrows in answer.

“These men…” He shook his head, pulling another handful of suture needle cards from the wooden shipping box to place in the smaller box on the shelf. “It’s rare that one comes in who doesn’t hate himself to some degree over what they’ve seen or done or had done to them. Particularly after the way they’ve been treated by society at large after doing it.”

Belle was pleased to hear her thoughts echoed aloud. “You’ve been paying attention to Dr. Hopper.”

“Unavoidable, after a while.” Graham chuckled. “But what I’m getting at is, it might be another thing that has to _heal_ from the inside out. Can’t just grab him and make it go away.”

“I’m going to stop doing it,” she said, making a firm decision.

“Stop…?” Graham asked, his eyebrow rising.

“Touching him. It’s obviously bothering him, one way or another. I won’t do it again, unless it’s strictly for medical purposes.”

“You aren’t the most keeping-one’s-hands-to-oneself type of person,” he said, and he grinned as she illustrated the point for him by reaching to pluck a bit of fluff from the cotton padding he’d stocked earlier off the shoulder of his uniform.

Belle grumbled good-naturedly and took a roll of gauze from the shelf, tossing it at his head. He fumbled to catch it after it bounced off his cheek, laughing. She sighed and looked at her lapel watch. “I should get back to the ward.” She reached up, touching his arm before leaving. “Thank you. Talking helped.”

“Any time.” Graham smiled over his shoulder at her. “You can touch me anytime you like, by the by.”

Belle grinned back at him, teasing, “You’re lucky I know you don’t mean that in a ribald way.”

It had taken up much of her allowed break for lunch, talking with Graham, and the men were still eating when she stepped back in. The entire ward had ended up with stew today, she was glad to see. It meant that Captain Gold was more likely to eat without prodding, and that he wouldn’t be singled out with a different meal. It brought a smile to her face when she found that he _was_ eating, and not just picking through, but having almost finished the bowl when she came back. She felt the unmistakable urge to hug him, and then felt a bit guilty over it.

She wasn’t unaware that she was developing feelings for him. She could box her own ears for it, as a matter of fact. For God’s sake, Captain Gold was married. For all that he didn’t speak of his wife, it wasn’t as if she could miss the great gold wedding ring on his hand. She herself was engaged to be married in less than six months now. But she had developed the softest of spots for him, somehow, and the thought of damaging the rapport she had created with him for nothing but sake of keeping up appearances made her stomach twist itself up in knots. She hadn’t done anything _unseemly_ , really. A pat on the hand or shoulder shouldn’t be construed as romantic. She could control herself; she wasn’t _that_ terrible at self-restraint. Besides, it wasn’t as if he’d so much as touched her - and she absolutely did not feel a tinge of disappointment at that.

Belle decided to wait until Captain Gold had finished eating completely before she’d go over. There was no use in disturbing him or drawing attention away from his meal, not when he was eating on his own for once. 

It took her a few moments, but she discovered herself being observed. The still form of Nurse Mills standing halfway across the room didn’t draw her attention until someone on the far lefthand row of beds dropped a utensil, and her gaze flicked away from Captain Gold’s vicinity. The head nurse simply stood there, arms crossed belligerently over her chest, watching Belle with a sour, narrow-eyed expression. 

Nurse Mills’ gaze slid to Captain Gold, absolutely glaring, before shifting her stare back to Belle. She finally dropped her arms, walking over. Belle’s stomach dropped, as well; she had no desire to speak with Nurse Mills, and particularly not if her superior was in the kind of mood it appeared.

She came to stand next to Belle. “So you have a pet, do you?”

Belle managed to hide how she bristled at Nurse Mills’ condescension. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, no worries, Nurse French. It happens. Some patients need more… _attention_.” The older nurse paused as if she were being delicate. A malevolent smile curled at the corners of her mouth. “You should, however, see to your professionalism at work.”

“Have I had any complaints regarding how I do my job?” Belle asked, not liking the suggestion.

“Not as yet,” Nurse Mills admitted, though she didn’t appear pleased with the fact.

“Well, if my professionalism hasn’t been called into question-”

“Be careful, Nurse French, how close you get to patients.” The head nurse looked down on her, a glint in her eyes that was testament to how she enjoyed herself. “You never know what a serviceman might have contracted or leave behind. A girl in every port, after all.”

Belle didn’t reply, glad when the woman turned and swept off the ward. She wanted to, and biting her tongue vexed, but nothing good ever came of backtalking Nurse Mills. The damage wasn’t worth getting in words of her own, however much the insinuation infuriated her.

She calmed herself before going over to Captain Gold’s bedside, now feeling quite defiant toward Nurse Mills. He sat on top of his blanket rather than keeping it gathered close over his lap, as he did most often, and his eyes were clear and bright.

He gave her a tentative smile when she approached, and she returned it readily. “You’re feeling better today, it seems?” she asked.

Captain Gold nodded. “I’ve been eating. Haven’t turned away a meal in two days,” he told her, his tone seeking approval. She hounded him over food more than anything else. It was no wonder that was the first thing out of his mouth.

“That’s wonderful,” she praised, seating herself on the edge of the bed. She gave him a sly look and brought a peppermint out of her pocket, giving it a gentle toss so that it tumbled across the stretch of knit blanket between them. He caught it with a little grin and tucked it into his robe pocket.

From behind her, Lieutenant Tillman argued with Gardner, one of the orderlies, about his lunch tray. “I’m not finished,” he snarled.

“It’s empty,” the orderly said slowly, over-pronouncing the words, and Belle cringed at the patronization.

“I’m not done with it,” Tillman insisted. 

Belle sighed, finally turning to look over her shoulder. “Gardner, it’s fine. Leave it until later.”

Gardner gave her a surly look, but he pushed the trolley on down the aisle.

She kept her eyes on Tillman for a few moments. He didn’t appear angry, really, but he studied Gardner with a severe expression as the orderly walked away, then shifted the same look to her.

When she turned back to Captain Gold, she caught his eyes lingering on his bedside table, and he appeared to have squared himself up a bit. There was a stubby little piece of flat drawing pencil sat next to the spine of the book on his table, and the photograph of his son had been propped carefully between. She wondered whether he had spoken about his family to Dr. Hopper yet.

“You’ve gotten a bit farther along in your book,” she observed, noticing the slice of paper he used to mark it had been moved. Not a great distance, but she found it noticeable. 

“It’s been an all right couple of days. I found a bit of concentration here and there.”

“Which part have you gotten to?”

“Nemo has just explained the electrical bullets,” he said, and gave her a little grin. “I’m a bit doubtful of the theory, myself.”

“No, they don’t seem quite feasible, do they?” Belle laughed, her hands rearranging themselves on her lap as she staunched the urge to reach out and touch his knee in her amusement. She didn’t mind sitting with him at any time, but he was _so_ lovely to talk with when he was on good days. 

Tillman mumbled about something from his bed. She could catch a dark enunciation of the word ‘Germans’ every once in a while, before he spoke more loudly, “Why is no one doing anything _about_ this?”

“He’s been like that all morning,” Rummond told her quietly. It didn’t bother him, really, as long as the Lieutenant was quiet, but the sporadic outbursts jarred his nerves. Jefferson had spent the majority of the day with Owen Flynn, a young middy assigned to the far end of the room, teaching the boy to play poker so that he could get farther away. 

Belle didn’t turn to look, hoping to avoid making the patient feel watched. “He’s seeing something?”

“I don’t believe it’s something he’s _seeing_ ,” Rummond said, looking down at her clasped hands. Tillman was too sharply aware of everything around him, for that. “A delusion, perhaps.”

There was a crash and a yell. Rummond startled in front of her despite his seeming calm, hissing, “Shit,” in equal parts at his own reaction and Tillman’s outburst, and Nurse French jumped to her feet.

Tillman had knocked the white ironstone bowl off his tray, shattering it on the tile next to him. “I told you!” he yelled, swinging his feet off the bed, and kicked at the shards to make room to stand. “I said they were here!”

Belle wasn’t sure whether the bowl being sent to the floor was purposeful or an accident, but it had to be cleared up either way, before he cut his feet on it. “Stay right where you are,” she said. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I don’t take orders from your kind,” Tillman said, fixing her with that severe look again.

Turning back to Captain Gold, she sighed, giving him a smile. “I’ll be right back - I’m going to clean up before he and Gardner can start something over it.”

Belle took the tray from the end of the bed and sat it on the floor so that she could place the broken pieces on it. Tillman squatted down next to her, apparently having snapped out of it and deciding to help. “Thank you,” she said. “Be careful, don’t cut yourself.” At least ironstone didn’t shatter to virtual sand as some china did. She concentrated on picking up the small fragments he’d scattered, and he reached for a larger piece.

Before she knew it, he’d hauled her to her feet, holding her against him with an arm wrapped in an iron grip around her chest and upper arms, pressing the point of the ironstone shard to her neck.

Belle pulled at his forearm on instinct. “Lieutenant Tillman!” she cried, and she heard running footsteps. “Lieutenant Tillman, it’s all right, it’s Nurse French! You know me!” 

“I know damn well what you are, and you’re no nurse,” he snarled near her ear.

Rummond’s heart pounded so hard against his ribs that his breastbone ached. He’d been watching Belle; it was difficult to take his eyes off of her. Tillman moved so fast, though, he hadn’t even time to get a word out before she’d been grabbed up in a hostage hold. 

He knew he couldn’t have gotten across the aisle quickly enough, but as soon as Tillman turned and Rummond was out of the Lieutenant’s line of sight, he slipped from the far side of his bunk and crossed to the other side of the ward, where he could move more quickly without being seen.

“Crazy bugger thinks she’s a German,” Lieutenant Booth snorted as his bunkmate snuck away.

Belle vaguely knew as more and more people gathered. Other nurses and orderlies dared get closest, their voices muddled as they all tried to talk to Tillman, each thinking they could talk sense into him. Her ears hummed and she felt lightheaded and too hot, and she knew it was adrenaline, but that didn’t help to clear her whirling thoughts. She had been in dangerous situations since becoming a nurse, but this was the first to threaten her so directly, and terror grew in the pit of her stomach.

“Lieutenant Michael Tillman! Let her go!” Dr. Whale barked above the other voices, and Belle zeroed in on him. Dr. Hopper stood next to him, face blanched, and Ruby stood on the other side. Graham stood beside Dr. Hopper, his hands raised, and Belle couldn’t hear what he said over everyone else, but he looked frightened. Well, at least she wasn’t overreacting to her situation, then.

Some of the patients were hovering at mid-range, most keeping a few feet back from the staff, and she saw worry in their faces, as well. Dr. Glass watched from the ward doors with an almost neutral expression. She didn’t see Captain Gold, though. She should have been able to see him on his bed when she shifted her eyes that way, but he was gone. If she could only see him, see the look on his face, she thought she might be better able to gauge just what kind of trouble she was in. She felt as if his face would give her the truth.

Jefferson whispered, “What are you _doing?”_ as Rummond passed. Rummond swatted a hand in his direction, giving him a look sharp enough to quiet him immediately in return for the question.

He crept between the beds at the far end of the room and made himself as small and low as he could as he moved back up the other aisle. Less than half the length of the room away. He slowed himself to silence the pat of his bare footsteps.

“No one would believe me! And look where we are now!” Tillman ranted, shaking her.

“Lieutenant,” Belle said, praying she could calm him long enough for his delusion to break, or for _something_ to stop him. “I know it feels real, but I promise you-”

“Shut up!” he snapped, shaking her again.

Belle clenched her eyes shut, feeling the piece of ironstone move on her skin. When she opened them again, Tillman had turned enough that she caught movement in the reflection of the window beside his bed. She saw just enough to tell her who it was. _Captain Gold_.

She could have sobbed, though whether in relief that someone was making an effort to do something or in fear for him, she couldn’t be sure. Tillman was easily fifty pounds heavier than Captain Gold, and if he turned the shard on the other man…

“It’s all right,” she continued, hoping to distract Lieutenant Tillman and keep him from noticing the reflection. It was right in front of him - he only needed to look that way to see. “If you’ll just let me go, we can finish cleaning up the bowl, and perhaps you can talk with Dr. Hopper? I’m sure he-”

 _“Shut your mouth!”_ he yelled right behind her ear, digging the shard harder against her neck, and she choked back a cry when she felt the sharp point puncture her skin.

Tillman stood against the side of his bunk, and Rummond could see there was no way to get between. He would have to go over top, and that would mean a very narrow moment during which he could do anything before Tillman knew he was there. 

His lungs burned when he held his breath to cut off that sound, as well, and he stepped between Tillman’s bed and the one to the left of it. With his knees at the edge of the mattress, he leaned, putting all of his weight on his good foot, and lunged. He had his hands on Tillman before the springs squeaked, wrenching the hand holding the piece of broken ironstone to force it as far away from Nurse French’s skin as he could.

Belle felt herself yanked backward, and for a second she feared Tillman had done it, slit her throat. But then she heard, “ _Drop it_ , boy. Drop the weapon,” in a low voice, somehow dispassionate and chilling at once, almost as near her ear as it was to Tillman’s, and it made her skin crawl. It took a very long beat of her heart to recognize that Captain Gold had gotten to them.

Rummond snaked his hand in behind Tillman’s arm across Nurse French’s chest, wrapping his hand around the Lieutenant’s wrist from the inside with a vice grip. With a sudden push stronger than the pulling hold Tillman had on her, Rummond gave her room to get away, and she took it.

When the grip on her loosened, Belle dropped away, hitting her knees hard enough to bruise, her hands flying to her neck. Graham rushed in to get her, pulling her up and away, and she was surrounded by he, Ruby, and Dr. Hopper as they saw blood and tried to check her. She turned among their hands, trying to see what happened between Captain Gold and Lieutenant Tillman. 

Tillman twisted his hand, trying to cut his attacker’s arm, but found himself held at the wrong angle to accomplish it. “I won’t be held prisoner again!” he shouted, fighting. “I’ll kill myself first!”

“Graham, help him!” Belle pled, pushing his hand away from her neck and urging him toward the patients who were _still_ the center of spectation. 

The adrenaline in Rummond’s system was waning, and he wasn’t strong enough to hold onto Tillman without its help. He felt his muscles beginning to tremble. To his relief, Humbert knelt one knee on the mattress and Gardner overshadowed them on the window side, each taking one of the Lieutenant’s arms, and he could let go. He scrambled backward off the bunk, just keeping his footing as he put the piece of furniture between himself and Tillman.

Still Tillman fought. The two orderlies had to wrestle him to the floor to pry the broken piece of the bowl from his hand. Graham tossed it aside, doing his best to pin Tillman as carefully as possible without giving him the least leeway to escape.

“We need a jacket,” Graham said, and Ruby nodded, hurrying off the ward.

Belle looked up at Captain Gold, where he remained stock still on the other side of Tillman’s bed. He stared at the forcibly prostrated Lieutenant for a moment more before he looked up at her. She knew the wide, frantic look to his eyes, and she could see him shaking from where she stood. _She_ was shaking, now that it was over.

Ruby came bursting back in, holding a neatly-folded straitjacket to her chest. She held it out to Graham when he reached. Graham and Gardner turned Tillman onto his back, working his arms into the sleeves, then had to turn him again to buckle him into it. Lieutenant Tillman sobbed as though he were being murdered, and despite everything, Belle felt a pang of sympathy for him.

Rummond shuddered as he watched Tillman being strapped in. The Lieutenant could have hurt Nurse French - could have _killed_ her - but seeing someone forced into one of those things… He wrapped his arms around his middle, mouth pressed thin as he watched, still working on catching his breath.

It was Gardner and Dr. Hopper who took the Lieutenant, then, half walking and half carrying him off the ward in Dr. Whale’s wake. “Where are they taking him?” Belle asked, though she knew quite well what would happen.

“Confinement, for now,” Graham said. He turned to face her, trying again to ease away the hand she held to her neck. She finally let him, and a quick flinch crossed his face. “When he’s calmed, likely off to Whale for… well.”

Belle frowned. She looked over to Captain Gold again, where he now stood by Tillman’s footlocker, and she stepped away from Graham. “Thank you,” she told the Captain, bringing up a tremulous smile.

He simply looked at her, taking a step back when she got close. His expression was almost blank, but she saw something akin to pain or fear cross his face. It was gone and he had shuttered himself before she could make sense of it.

He hadn’t been quick enough to keep her from being hurt. Rummond dug his fingers into his right side ribs, making them hurt, causing pain to radiate. The wound on her neck had already stopped bleeding, but the blood on her skin and the white collar of her nurse’s dress was still wet and bright. He really _was_ useless. 

Captain Gold turned away from her, moving slowly as he went back back to his bed. He sat and pulled the blanket firmly over him again.

“Come here,” Graham said, curling a hand around her arm to urge her away. “Let’s step into an exam room, and we’ll clean that up.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I need to see to-”

“ _You_ need to be seen to first. Then you can fuss over Captain Gold.”

Belle looked up at him. “‘Fuss over’?” she repeated a bit indignantly.

“We won’t leave the ward,” Graham compromised. “You can keep an eye on him while I get you fixed up, all right?”

She nodded, following him over to the window in the corner where she spent her night shifts. Early afternoon sun poured in, giving plenty of light to work by. Ruby had brought in a tray of supplies by the time Graham carried over a chair and sat her down in it, crouching by her side as he swabbed away the blood with cotton gauze and disinfectant. 

Captain Gold stared down into his blanket as if he could find answers in the weave of the knit, and she stared at him in much the same manner.

Graham, dropping a soiled bit of gauze onto the sterile tray next to him, followed her gaze. He turned back to cleaning the actual wound, muttering softly, “Who the hell ever put that man on trial for cowardice?”

The cut was superficial, but it was a close thing. It wouldn’t have taken much, the positioning of it. A slip, or another moment of agitation… He scowled while she wasn’t looking, dipping a smear of salve from a small pot of antiseptic ointment.

It wasn’t Tillman’s _fault_ , Belle knew, but she couldn’t help feeling the pinch of anger over the way it affected Captain Gold. He had been doing _so well_. Her anger overshadowed the stinging pain of Graham tending the injury left behind.


	17. Cornered

A storm was trying to roll in. The sunshiny day hung on for as long as it could, but less than an hour after Tillman had been escorted off the ward, the windows began to dim and the light to gray.

Rummond felt the heaviness in the air. Not having enough attention to pay to the change in weather, he assumed it was simply a part of everything settling in on him again, weighting him down and sapping the spirit from him.

Nurse French had come back to sit with him, doing her very best to smile as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t failed and allowed her to come to harm. He’d looked at her long enough to see the wound on her neck, the width of his fingertip and apparently not quite deep enough for a suture, red at the jagged edges. He turned away from her, careful not to bump her with his feet as he did. Pulling the blanket higher, he pressed his face into his pillow.

“I’m just fine,” Belle assured him, leaning with her arms folded across her knees. The desire to reach out to him - to pat his leg, _anything_ in the way of lending comfort - was overwhelming after the events of the day. She turned her hands to hold onto her elbows. “And Lieutenant Tillman won’t be back until tomorrow, at the earliest.”

She watched as Captain Gold only seemed to curl himself more tightly. It hurt to see him hurting, and she wasn’t sure she understood that, but it had her verging on giving in to her instinct to stretch a hand out to touch him.

“Captain Gold?” Graham said quietly, and she took her hand back before making contact.

“All squared away?” Belle asked, not wanting to say too much about it just now.

Graham nodded. He approached the bedside. “Captain, Dr. Hopper would like to see you.”

Without moving otherwise, he replied, muffled, “My appointment isn’t for hours yet.”

“He moved it up, shuffled around a bit.” Graham looked to Belle. Tillman’s visit to the therapist clearly wasn’t going to happen today, and it had given some leeway in the doctor’s schedule.

“Captain, why don’t you go ahead and get up?” Belle encouraged. She reached for the part of the blanket that draped over the bed behind him, giving it a tug to pull it off his shoulder. “Dr. Hopper is waiting for you.”

To her surprise, he didn’t put up much of a fight. He moved - lethargically, but he moved. He turned toward her without looking up at her, pushing the covers back, and sat up to slide his feet into his slippers. Captain Gold went with Graham readily, then, leaving her to sit and watch him go. She waited until the ward door closed behind them before leaning forward to cover her face with her hands.

Humbert took him the long way around to Dr. Hopper’s office, but it wasn’t pleasant as it had been the first time. It was cloudy, and the humidity was a hair’s breadth from a drizzle. The sweet briar had stopped blooming, blossoms wilted to reveal still green hips.

With the adrenaline had gone the clarity Rummond gained over the last couple of days. He felt disconnected again. Slow and unreal. Every scrap of easement he’d pulled together had fled.

Humbert took him right into the office. He didn’t step toward the sofa, but allowed the orderly to nudge him into one of the chairs directly in front of the doctor’s desk, not having the energy to resist. He got the sense that Humbert and Dr. Hopper had spoken before the orderly came to fetch him; rather than the usual step out into the hallway, the two men merely traded a look.

“I’ll be waiting right outside, today,” Humbert told him, giving him yet another small, concerned smile before leaving the room.

It irritated Rummond that they kept coming back to this, back to having to be chaperoned, watched. And it wasn’t as if he didn’t think that he needed it sometimes - he knew he likely wouldn’t have made it as far as Dr. Hopper’s office today, for instance, if he hadn’t been guided - but it was the simple fact that it was necessary at all.

“How are you feeling?” the doctor asked. No beating ’round the bush today, then.

Rummond answered honestly. “Like not being here.”

Dr. Hopper wished he’d been able to bring another pocketwatch in. He’d intended to, and had one in mind, but it wasn’t in the bureau drawer where it was meant to be, and he had yet to locate it. He hoped to be able to draw something out of Captain Gold, anyway. “It was quite the stressful afternoon, I imagine. Such a situation isn’t one most people expect, when they have a hospital stay.”

“This isn’t exactly your typical civilian hospital, though, is it?” Rummond muttered, fretting with the end of his robe’s belt. It needed mending, his fingers having gradually pulled the tail’s stitching apart and frayed the end of the fabric.

Dr. Hopper pushed his glasses higher on his nose, resisting the urge to take notes, for now. “One would hope to have a modicum of peace even in a military hospital.”

“One would hope for a great many things,” Rummond scoffed, imitating the doctor’s phrasing. “Doesn’t mean any of them will come to pass.”

There was more beneath that acerbity, but it wasn’t something that Dr. Hopper was going to drag up from the depths here and now. He wanted to get his patient to talk through what had happened today - or at least attempt to do so.

“You were having a good day before the incident with Lieutenant Tillman, from what I hear?”

“I’m not sure it could be called ‘good,’ but…” He had kept a full stomach for nearly a solid two days, and managed six hours of sleep in a row. He’d only had a single hallucination during that time, and it was minor, all things considered. That was as good as it got, right now. “It wasn’t bad,” he allowed.

“And afterward?” The doctor waited, giving Captain Gold time to answer. When no reply came, his patient’s gaze remaining firmly on his hands, he said in hopes of prompting him, “You seem as if the rug has been pulled from beneath you.”

“You should be speaking with Nurse French. She’s the one was hurt,” Rummond said quietly.

Dr. Hopper smiled at his patient’s worry for her. “Nurse French and I might yet talk. That will be up to her. My concern just now is you.”

Rummond dropped the end of his belt in annoyance, and he took the peppermint from his pocket, fiddling with the wrapper. “I don’t feel like talking today.”

“You might have saved Nurse French’s life, doing what you did. Lieutenant Tillman had no idea who he was about harm. Your quick thinking put a stop to his actions.” The doctor outlined it for him, hoping that it might somehow help his patient.

“Not quick enough,” Captain Gold bit off.

“I was there, Captain. There was nothing more you could have done.” Dr. Hopper pushed a bit at the miniscule opening given. “What do you feel was lacking in what you did?”

Captain Gold shook his head. He twisted and untwisted the paper around the bit of candy. “I let her get hurt.”

The doctor, doing his best to move subtly, picked up his pen and removed the cover. He made quick, disjointed notes of shorthand that he could fill in later. The Captain placed responsibility on himself for so much that was not his fault - things that had no place resting on his shoulders, and Dr. Hopper saw the pattern in it. “What makes you place responsibility on yourself for this afternoon?” he asked as he wrote, only half looking at his scribbles.

Rummond felt more and more agitated with the doctor’s pushing, the melancholy and feeling of slowness not leaving, but something beside them changing gears perceptibly, something nervy and restless gathering inside him. In quiet, he could turn over and over what had happened, theorize on how he could have gotten to Tillman more quickly, how he could have kept Nurse French from being injured at all, or how he should have seen what Tillman was at before it even began. But he’d had enough of _this_ for today.

“I don’t want to do this. Not right now,” Rummond said, trying to explain to the doctor again with the words he had. Between the day’s events and his appointment being moved up, he hadn’t had time to mentally prepare himself for meeting with the therapist as he usually did, and together it felt as if it were swarming him.

“You’ve been forming a friendship with Nurse French,” Dr. Hopper observed, appealing to Captain Gold via the nurse rather than his fellow patient. He saw the Captain’s hands stop, one of them closing around the piece of candy he occupied them with. “It must have been particularly frightening, then, to see her attacked.”

It all overflowed with mention of the nurse. He leapt forward from the chair and the doctor jerked backward, having to grab the edge of the desk to avoid toppling his own chair over. Rummond slung a hand across the corner of the desk in frustration, and the collection of crickets there went scattering, making small, sharp noises as they hit the wall and bookcase. 

He wanted to yell at the psychologist to _leave it alone_ , to stop bringing Nurse French into this, that it was none of his business - but he clenched his jaw and went for the door, throwing it back to rebound off the wall. 

Humbert followed as he stalked down the corridor and back toward the east wing, heading for his bunk, and hoping that Nurse French had found something else to do in the meantime.


	18. Wander Unleashed

For more than a week after Captain Gold told her about the events he survived in Germany, Belle agonized over how much or whether at all to tell Dr. Hopper. She decided, ultimately, that it couldn’t hurt to simply tell him the fact of their patient sharing the information with her.

Dinner had only just come around, her tasks were all done, and Nurse Mills had gone home, so there would be no more busy work for sole sake of watching the nurses hop to. Belle made sure that Captain Gold was still safely on the ward before she stepped away from it. Mary Margaret, on her first day back, discovered the Captain missing just before lunch and ran right away to tell Nurse Mills. The nurses and orderlies had engaged in another search of the hospital, and Belle had done her best to subtly steer everyone away from the north ward long enough to go for him herself. She’d earned a suspicious look from the head nurse, being the one to retrieve him on both occasions he’d been found missing. As long as she could keep his hiding place a secret for him, though, she could deal with the glares.

Captain Gold hadn’t put up a fuss over being brought back to the ward. It was almost a disappointment, how easily he had submitted to her request that he come back with her. He’d barely spoken to her - or anyone else, really - since the incident with Tillman’s delusion day before yesterday, and the way he had withdrawn worried her all over again.

Reassured that he was where he was meant to be, she checked her watch. Dr. Hopper would be leaving soon. She would have to hurry, if she wanted to catch him. She’d gotten herself too frazzled over it now to wait until the morning. And with time short, of course she crossed paths with Ruby as her friend was on the way out. 

Ruby was smiling ear-to-ear, fixing the pins that held her cap to her hair.

“Don’t you look cheerful?” Belle grinned, hoping to speak in passing. Her friend was more than cheerful, she saw when they approached one another. Ruby was practically vibrating with happiness.

“Victor and I are back on,” Ruby said as soon as Belle was within whispering distance.

“That would have been my first guess.”

“Oh, no. Can you tell?” Ruby pulled at her apron and skirts, examining them for things Belle was sure she didn’t want to think about being on her friend’s uniform.

Belle shook her head. “Only by the canary-eating grin.”

“Well, _that_ I can wipe off. Is it on straight?” Ruby asked, feeling around the edges of her cap. “Granny will kill me if I come home looking as if I’d been up to something.”

“Stop fiddling with it, and it will be fine,” Belle assured her, circling, and Ruby turned to face her. “I’m happy for you, and tomorrow I want to hear about how you’ve worked it out. But I have to go, or I’ll miss Dr. Hopper.”

“He’s still here. Or he was when I was out there.” Ruby smoothed the hair up from her temples. “You’re sure it looks okay?”

“Positive.” Belle pressed her lips together over her grin, remembering how Ruby and Dr. Whale tended to favor a particular examination room down that way. “Thank you,” she said, and turned to hurry in that direction.

He was just pulling his office door closed as she rounded the corner. “Nurse French,” Dr. Hopper greeted her with a smile, though it faded into concern as he took in the look on her face. “Is something wrong?”

“He told me what happened,” she said before she could talk herself out of telling him.

Dr. Hopper paused. “Who told you about what?” he asked. He thought perhaps he knew the ‘who,’ but didn’t want to assume too much.

The corridor was deserted, but she took care to lower her voice, anyway. “Captain Gold. He told me what happened in Germany, when his squadron went down.”

“Ah,” the doctor said quietly. He frowned at his hands as he locked the door, trying the knob to be sure before he turned to her again. “Don’t- don’t tell me. He told you-”

“He told me in confidence,” she agreed. It would nag at her that she knew while Dr. Hopper didn’t, when the doctor was the one who could actually _help_ him through it, professionally speaking. “I was only wondering if he had told you.”

“He hasn’t, as yet. But it’s good- it’s a good thing that he entrusted those memories to you,” the doctor said. He gave her a soft smile. He couldn’t help being the slightest bit jealous, however, that his patient hadn’t yet volunteered it to him. Still, at least he trusted _someone_ , and didn’t that feel like a measure of progress in itself?

Belle felt strangely honored that Captain Gold had told her and no one else. But she _did_ also wish that she could talk to Dr. Hopper about it. It would make holding the knowledge far easier. 

“He’s hardly spoken a dozen words to me since Tillman had to be taken off the ward.” She worried the corner of her lip with her eye teeth, following the doctor slowly back down the hallway, toward the main entrance.

“No, he barely gave me more than that.” Dr. Hopper considered for a moment what he could say. Nurse French _had_ been involved in the encounter, and it wasn’t as if Captain Gold had said much of anything about it in session. “I believe he’s a bit traumatized by the entire thing. It’s a precarious point he’s at, giving you the information that he did, and so quickly afterward facing the possibility of losing you to a situation that could very well have happened on a battlefield.”

“Losing me?” Her brow furrowed, and she looked up at him, a spark in her eyes that she immediately clamped down on - though not before he saw it. “Captain Gold is a good man; he’d have done what he did for any of the nurses.”

“Oh, I’m sure he would have,” Dr. Hopper readily agreed. The connection was becoming clearer. It couldn’t have been more easily read that Nurse French had become attached to his patient in return if she’d said it aloud. “Though I’m not certain it would have affected him so, had it been one of the others. I believe Captain Gold has become more than a bit dependent on you, Nurse French. It’s something to treat carefully, that sort of attachment. You are a caregiver. And one who treats him more kindly than the rest of the nurses put together. He isn’t blind to that, though he may not quite understand it.”

“And you sound as if you’ve been conferring with Graham,” she said as they came to a stop in the lobby.

“Perhaps, perhaps.” He smiled, looking down and touching the center of his glasses to push them up.

Belle took a step away, not wanting to keep him, since they’d reached the doors. “Thank you, for the talk.”

“Not at all. It _is_ what I’m here for.”

“Have a careful ride home,” she wished him, and he touched the brim of his hat before going out to fetch his bicycle.

She checked her lapel watch again. There was enough time to search out Graham before she had to be back to clock in for her night shift.

The west ward had gained a patient this evening - a soldier who was having complications with shrapnel that another doctor had claimed was safe to leave where it lay - and she knew that Graham had performed the intake. She hazarded a guess that he was still going through the man’s belongings. Ordinarily, he’d have been on his way home, as well, but he’d given in to Gus Muis’ pleading for a traded shift. Belle couldn’t say she was displeased; having Graham on the same night shift meant another pair of eyes that she trusted as well as her own.

She found her friend in the storage room in back of the front desk, writing the new patient’s name on the end of an empty box. A beaten-up and scuffed, brown leather suitcase splayed open on the countertop, already searched. The soldier’s civilian clothing and a few items from the suitcase had been set aside, a register for listing the belongings that couldn’t go to the man’s footlocker ready to be filled out.

“He still hasn’t said much?” Graham asked after taking one look at her.

“He hasn’t said anything today. Not to me.” She picked up the pencil that sat atop the slip of paper, rocking it between her fingers. “Not even when I was bringing him back to the ward, and he usually grumbles a bit, if nothing else.”

“I still can’t figure how he gets off the ward with _no one_ seeing.”

“I’m not sure whether no one sees, or if they pretend not to see.”

“Or they don’t care…”

“ _Graham_ ,” Belle scolded.

“I’m not saying-” He shook his head, reaching to slip the pencil from her hand so that he could make his list. “I only mean that he isn’t exactly well-liked, Belle. He isn’t an easy man to get along with.”

The frown she gave him deepened.

“And I’m not saying I don’t like him. He’s a patient. I care for him as I do all of them. But even you can’t deny he’s particularly difficult.”

She made a small, noncommittal noise. “He’s difficult because he’s in pain. He sneaks out to hide himself when he can’t figure out what to do with it. _That’s_ what I understand.”

“I’m not meaning it as an insult,” Graham brogued, lifting the small pile of personal belongings and placing them in the box. He set the list on top before closing it up. “It’s simple fact.”

“I suppose there are easier patients.” Belle sighed. “Please do a favor for me? Don’t sound the alarm when he appears to have wandered away. I know where he goes.”

Graham took the box across to a set of shelves lined with similar ones, tipping it up to slide into an empty spot. He turned a raised eyebrow on her. “Do you, now? Care to share?”

“No. Not really. It’s a confidence of sorts.”

“You know where he is every time he disappears?”

“I’m fairly sure I will,” she said with only a slight hesitation. “I have thus far.”

“I won’t sound the alarm,” he promised. “As long as you can keep tabs on him.”

“I can. It wouldn’t do for Nurse Mills to find him out.” He was skittish enough. Belle didn’t like the thought of how the head nurse might make that even worse.

Graham made a low, grumbling hum in agreement. “Did you happen to hear what Regina did?”

Belle shook her head. “What?”

“She broke into Archie’s office, it appears.”

“No!” Belle gasped, her jaw dropped. “How do you know it was her?”

“It happened last night, near shift change.” Graham slipped the pencil into his pocket. “He meant to stay late to read up on some things, left to get a cup of tea from the kitchens. He met Regina coming up his hallway on the way back. Didn’t think much of it until he found the lock all scratched up.”

“Did he report it?”

Graham shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “Archie doesn’t think it would hold up. He didn’t catch her in the office, but…” He gave Belle a knowing look. “He had the locks changed, not that it’ll help a great deal if she decides to have a go at it again.”

Belle frowned, wondering what the head nurse could have been looking for. “Did she cause any harm?”

“Not that he found. He could tell his files were rifled through.”

“But she didn’t take any?”

“He accounted for them all. If she was looking for anything in particular, I don’t believe she accomplished it. He’s got his own private shorthand. She’d never be able to read his notes. There’s nothing spelled out past what she’d have in her own files.”

“Good. That’s good.” Belle nodded, relieved. She didn’t want to imagine what Nurse Mills could have done with the kind of private knowledge Dr. Hopper had on the servicemen in his care. “You lock this room, don’t you?”

“I do.” Graham nodded back to her. “Not that it’ll help. She has a key.”

“Staff area,” Belle remembered with a scowl.

“If she wants to hurt someone, she’ll _find_ something to do it,” he said softly, and the look on his face gave Belle the urge to hug him.

He shook his head, as if shaking himself out of his thoughts. “Getting near time to clock in.”

“I need to get back to the ward, anyway. Tillman is meant to come back this evening.” Dr. Hopper had given the east ward notice of it earlier in the day. She wanted to be there when he returned.

“He should be back in sometime after the dinner trays are picked up.” Graham reached for the door, opening it for her. “I’ll be bringing him in. My first stop of the shift.”

“You’ll be around tonight, won’t you?”

“Mm,” he said with a nod. “I’ll sit on the ward with you, if you like.”

“I would.” It wasn’t that she didn’t feel safe, but with Lieutenant Tillman returning, she would feel _safer_ having Graham nearby and alert. Just in case.

Graham turned to lock the storage room door. “Then I’ll have everything squared away before lights out.”

She headed back, taking her time. From halfway down the corridor, she could hear the _clank_ ing of trays being set back in place on the trolley. There was a pause, and she heard Quinn’s voice raise. Bombardier Jezek’s joined it, and both grew in volume. That was the last thing she wanted tonight - Quinn setting everyone’s nerves to stand on end.

Leroy was half out of his bed and jabbing a threatening finger up at the orderly’s smirking face when she went in, and she hurried over. “Now, now,” she said, stopping him from tossing his covers back, placing herself between the two men to break their concentration on one another. “It’ll be lights out before you know it. Don’t you and Corporal Knight have a game of draughts to finish before then?”

“He can’t learn to keep his mouth shut, I can shut it for him!” Leroy snarled, but he didn’t push back at the nurse when she urged him to return to bed.

Quinn laughed, leaning over Belle’s shoulder to get a gibe in. “I thought a bombardier, of all people, wouldn’t be so _sensitive_.”

Leroy swung a leg off the mattress again. “I’ll show you something sensitive!”

“Orderly!” Belle snapped, whirling on Quinn before he could retort again, glaring up at him in all the authority she could gather about herself, as if she weren’t a good foot shorter than he. “It’s past time for day shift to clock out. I can see to the rest of the trays.” 

“What was he needling you about?” Belle asked when Quinn walked away. She took the Bombardier’s tray, went across to the aisle to place it on the trolley, and came back to straighten his blanket. He wasn’t her patient, but he may as well be while she was nearby.

Leroy muttered quietly to himself as he settled down a bit. “Astrid,” he murmured.

“You oughtn’t let him rile you. He does it for the pure, hateful sport of it.”

“Think I don’t know that? There’s only so much indecency a man can take, talking about the woman he- he-” Leroy nodded, giving it to Nurse French to assume the rest.

He was a cross old thing, but he did love Nurse Novak. Belle smiled, reaching for the stray teacup on the bedside table. “She’ll be assigned back to this ward someday soon, I’m sure of it.”

He gave Belle a scoffing look. “Not so long as Nurse Battle-Axe has anything to do with it.”

Belle, for her part, did an admirable job of not snickering. “There are heads above Nurse Mills,” she said. “She might not look kindly on it, but Nurse Novak could have a word with the administrator.”

Once Knight had come over with his board and box of pieces, Belle went on to collect the last of the trays. Quinn had finished most of the ward without starting anything, at least. She pushed the heavy trolley back out to the hallway, and found Graham coming through the lobby, moving toward her with Tillman at his side.

She let the door swing shut, and she walked calmly over to Captain Gold’s bed to tell him, “Lieutenant Tillman is on his way back in.”

Before he could school his expression neutral, Rummond frowned up at her. The book in his lap fanned itself mostly closed over its unmoved bookmark, and he looked past her to the ward doors as Humbert pushed the left side open.

The Lieutenant stepped in past Humbert, who had to give him a small nudge to move him out of the door’s path. He didn’t quite shuffle, but his walk wasn’t the confident one he’d been possessed of, either. Tillman appeared changed. Altered. There was a bewildered look upon his face just this side of blank.

Rummond looked to Nurse French again; she stared warily at the Lieutenant, watching as he and the orderly moved in the direction of Tillman’s waiting, freshly-made bed. When they got nearer, he found that Tillman’s short-cropped hair revealed burns at his temples, and that, more than anything, bothered him.

“What did Whale do to him?” Rummond asked softly, as much out of fearful curiosity as out of no longer being able to stand keeping silence toward her.

Belle turned to Captain Gold in surprise, but did her best not to dwell on the happy thump it gave her heart when he addressed her. They were the first words he’d spoken _to_ her in more than a full day. 

“Dr. Whale calls it ‘the electric cure,’” she replied just as quietly.

“It doesn’t appear to have ‘cured’ so much as…” He trailed off, frowning as Tillman stopped at the bedside. Humbert had to bodily sit him on the mattress.

“Damaged,” she said, and the way he looked at her told her enough that she knew it had been Captain Gold’s thought, as well.

She had read of the practice when it was being talked over in a recent medical journal - the same one that gave Dr. Whale the initiative to install one of the machines in his hospital, she suspected - and she understood how it worked, in theory. She didn’t know whether Dr. Whale wasn’t quite doing it properly, or if the theory simply didn’t work in practice, but it was not something that she herself could accept as a viable treatment. Not with the results it yielded. She had been present in the room for it once, and _only_ once, and she’d had to excuse herself mid-procedure.

“Does he have children?” the Captain asked. His hands twisted themselves into the edge of his blanket. 

Belle couldn’t blame him for his upset - the Lieutenant’s condition disturbed her, as well. She sat on the Captain’s bedside to split his attention. “Two. A boy and a girl. They live with their grandmother.”

Rummond had seen men shocked by accident, wiring up lights and power sources. He’d seen them killed instantly, and men crippled by it. There had been a young man on the first boat he was assigned to, with scars down one side of his body from being struck by lightning. But he’d never seen a thing like this. This seemed cruel. “It isn’t likely he’ll get them back, now, is it?”

“No. Not likely.” Belle wrung her hands, turning so that she saw only Captain Gold. She didn’t tell him that Lieutenant Tillman wouldn’t be on the east ward much longer, with such an outcome.

He looked down at the marbled end paper of his book and closed the cover slowly over it. He’d been damaged enough, himself - he couldn’t imagine having his mind taken from him completely, and with it even the bare possibility of seeing his son again. As angry as he remained at Tillman, he felt sorry for the man, too. He felt sorry for the father in him.

“You’ve been reading?” Belle asked, bringing him out of his thoughts. He was _talking_ to her, and she decided to take advantage of that, in case it turned out to be a passing thing. “Has anything more happened?”

“Not since last time you asked,” he admitted, running a hand over the gilded design. “It’s been a bit slow going.”

“It will pick up again.” She smiled at him, and it untied at least one knot in her stomach when he gave her a smile, however small, in return.


	19. Devil in the Details

The crickets had been given a new home on a bookcase shelf when Rummond went to his next appointment. He felt a bit guilty as he stepped into the office, his eyes flicking first to the desk corner and then to the floor where he had knocked them. The doctor, however, didn’t act as if he had any kind of grudge at all over it, giving the same warm smile he usually gave when Rummond came in.

“I have something for you, Captain,” Dr. Hopper said, holding up a hand to stop his patient before he could veer toward the sofa. He brought a leather satchel up to his lap from behind the desk, slipping a hand in to bring out something small and handkerchief-wrapped. He held it out to his patient. “Here you are.”

Rummond reached across and took it. He knew immediately by the weight that it was another pocketwatch, and he looked at the doctor curiously.

“If you would _like_ to work on it?” Dr. Hopper placed his bag on the floor again. The watch likely wasn’t worth repairing, strictly speaking, but its worth lay more in keeping these sessions running as smoothly as possible. “It’s an old one of my own. I’m afraid it’s quite cheap, but it served at the time I bought it. I wondered if you could do anything with it?”

Unwrapping the watch, Rummond gave it a look. It was as cheaply made as the doctor said, but he’d met few enough watches he couldn’t repair. “I’ll open it up and see,” he said as he went to the bookcase to take the tools that had made their way back to the shelf.

Dr. Hopper waited until his patient was settled on the sofa and poking through screwdrivers. After the slightly disastrous session the day of the incident with Tillman, he had tried to bring Captain Gold in again the next day. The Captain had refused completely. It wasn’t until this Friday that his patient had been willing to come back in.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, setting his pen and open file in place in the event that he needed them.

Rummond kept his eyes on the pocketwatch as he removed the back cover to take a peek inside. He replied with a sheepish, “Better than Tuesday, I suppose.”

“That’s good to hear.” Dr. Hopper watched him for a moment, while he so carefully and one-by-one removed screws and then the wheels they held, searching for the fault.

Once his patient seemed a bit more comfortable and focussed on the watch, the doctor asked, “Captain… have you heard of anxiety?”

“I have. Of course,” Rummond muttered distractedly, trading tools to lift the regulator out from its seat.

“I don’t mean the low levels that most people feel solely during stressful situations,” Dr. Hopper explained. “I’m speaking of anxiety that pervades a large portion of one’s life, that causes problems in and of itself.”

“You mean nerves,” Rummond said, curiosity piqued as to where the doctor was going. He always had some point in target when he asked questions and followed them with definitions.

Dr. Hopper nodded, encouraging the Captain’s participation. “Yes, in a manner of speaking. Being nervous isn’t always a bad thing. A small amount can help performance in work and everyday life. But sometimes, something causes it to get out of hand. It can take the form of worrying obsessively over things beyond one’s control, or often feeling overly nervous and distressed… Is that something that you feel might apply to you? That might have applied even before the war?”

Rummond frowned, rolling a short screw between his thumb and fingertip. The worries he carried were legion, and he’d felt high-strung for most of his life. It was far from pleasant, but it was something he’d learned to deal with. Until the war had spun it all out of control, on top of everything else. He had never imagined it the territory of a psychologist.

Dr. Hopper watched as the Captain considered his words. He was confident that this applied to Captain Gold; it was only a matter of it being clear to his patient, as well.

“Is there a treatment?” Rummond asked.

When the doctor sighed, he understood there wasn’t before the man spoke. “Modern medicine hasn’t quite caught up to treating it by virtue of itself yet. But there are teas that help in calming. Exertion and relaxation in turns have been found to help. Simply knowing what it is and why it’s happening can aid in a measure of peace with its existence.”

Rummond blew a displeased breath through his nose. He lifted out the balance wheel, turning it close to his face to inspect it. “I don’t see where that can help at all.”

Dr. Hopper considered remarking upon how activities that interested and distracted an individual - such as, oh, clockwork repair - could be helpful in controlling anxiety, as well, but came to the quick conclusion that to draw attention to it might be counterproductive just now.

“We’ll see what we can come up with,” he said, instead. “Perhaps Dr. Whale would be open to allowing patients to try those teas.”

The Captain made a small noise, placing the component on the tool case, and began working toward removing the center wheel.

Dr. Hopper made a note about speaking with Whale. “Captain Gold,” he began, sliding the slip of paper off the file and over next to his blotter, where it was more likely to be remembered. “Would you be willing to tell me something about your experiences toward the end of the war? It doesn’t have to be something that’s painful for you - only _something_. Anything you like.” He hoped to urge his patient closer to telling him about Germany, but anything at all would be progress on that front.

Rummond, not being dull, knew precisely where the doctor was headed. He twisted his mouth into an irritated frown. “If you’ve read my files, then you know exactly what happened,” he said shortly.

“I know what the records say.” Dr. Hopper nodded. “It’s an unfortunate fact that military records are not always the very height of truth they’re made out to be. I want to know what _you_ say.”

Captain Gold looked up, fixing the doctor with a wry look. “You expect me to believe a certain nurse hasn’t already filled you and the rest of the staff in on it?”

The doctor shook his head, giving the Captain a smile, hoping that he would believe he was telling the truth. “She hasn’t. Nurse French has shown the utmost respect for your confidence in her.”

Rummond blinked, feeling another measure of guilt for having snubbed the nurse so.

He would have to tell the doctor eventually. It was why he was _here_. He was surprised the doctor hadn’t been pushing him harder for it since day one. And he _had_ already told it once - surely he could repeat himself. It might even be easier to get out a second time.

“You don’t have to talk about Germany today,” Dr. Hopper said when Captain Gold went quiet. He wanted it to be clear that he wasn’t demanding that. “A simple memory, a happy one, anything you feel you can handle would be fine.”

“No, I- if I’m going to talk about it, I’m going to talk about it, not draw circles around it.” When he began pulling his thoughts together, he knew that ‘easier’ was out the window right away. How had he begun when he told Nurse French? If he could remember, perhaps he could begin there, and it wouldn’t feel so much like stripping skin from his bones to have to tell it over again.

“The entire squadron called me Papa,” he said, finally. That was the heart of it, there. He could work outward from that again.

He recounted it to Dr. Hopper much as he had to Nurse French, though pauses came more frequently and words less easily in surroundings that felt a great deal less safe than the supply closet with her sitting beside him. He was frustrated to find that he had as little control over stammering as ever, but the doctor didn’t remark on it.

When Captain Gold stopped for too long a stretch at the point of telling of a boy named Collingwood and an anti-tank mine, Dr. Hopper came from around his desk. He turned a chair around again to place himself more obviously in his patient’s line of sight, but outside of being intrusive. “Do you need anything?” he asked quietly.

Rummond looked up, unsure when the doctor had moved closer. He shook his head. He’d gotten lost. He wasn’t sure when he stopped speaking - it had continued to play out in his mind when his words had stopped, pulling him away. “Wh- where did I leave off?”

“You were telling me about Collingwood,” Dr. Hopper reminded gently. He flicked a glance to the clock on the table when the Captain looked back down at the small, offset probe he’d been holding in his hand. Their hour had expired nearly ten minutes ago, but he wouldn’t interrupt his patient for anything in the middle of this.

“He s- stepped on a mine,” Rummond picked up, backtracking from his thoughts. Had he been sitting silent that long? “We w- were nearly right atop him…” He reached up without realizing, scrubbing at his cheek with his hand. 

The doctor listened with full attention and growing apprehension for the things he knew were coming. The bare-bones of the report and court proceedings were no preparation for hearing this out of the mouth of the man who suffered it.

Captain Gold shook so that he had to stop touching the pocketwatch entirely. Dr. Hopper watched tears brim and run over, and it was all he could do to keep quiet until the story was finished. The Captain told about the Austrian boy he killed with his bayonet dagger, about being shot, about holding the last living boy as he died, all the way up through to being taken to the London hospital.

The doctor didn’t jump in to tell him that he shouldn’t have died, the way Nurse French had. The doctor didn’t argue with him about enemies versus children, or try to comfort him, and that was a relief in itself. He felt as if it somehow took longer to tell, this time around, and he was no less worn through by the end of it.

As he drifted away at the end of the story, Rummond pretended to focus concentration on the watch movement, though he could currently see no more than a smear of brass. He acted as if the tears running down his face to spot on his robe weren’t happening, until he couldn’t any longer. He saw a flash of white, and found the doctor holding a handkerchief out to him. He took it, but his cheeks burned.

“There is nothing to be ashamed of,” Dr. Hopper told him quietly, sitting back to give his patient space. “More men could do with showing emotion, rather than pretending they don’t feel.” Captain Gold didn’t respond, but the sentiment was imparted anyway.

There were things about Captain Gold’s family life afterward and the trial that Dr. Hopper wanted to know, but more than enough had been inflicted upon his patient today. He resisted even asking more in-depth questions regarding what he’d been told, for now. It was _out_ , aired for consideration and, hopefully, to begin healing. That was the important part of the session.

“Thank you again for trusting me enough to tell me,” the doctor said.

Rummond rubbed at the tear tracks on his face, and pulled at the square of cotton between his hands, working to take deep breaths as silently as he could manage. He didn’t understand the doctor’s habit of voicing gratitude for telling him things, but it felt good to hear, in an odd way.

Dr. Hopper sat nearby for a few more moments before standing, leaving the chair where it was, and going back to his desk. “You can stay as long as you like,” he said, picking up his pen. “You only need go back when you’re ready. I won’t push you out.”

With that permission, Rummond took his time. He put the tools and watch away slowly, trying to get his head to clear, and again wished that this space felt as safe as the supply closet did. It didn’t feel as alien as it once had, at least.

When he stood to put the tools back on the bookshelf, he felt wobbly and too small, too insubstantial, despite the heaviness in him. For once, he was glad to have the orderly waiting to see him back.

“Your watch is missing a couple of jewels,” he said, voice soft and still unsure as he went to the office door. “It’s what I find so far. Won’t know if there might be more until I get the whole thing apart.”

The doctor stood, crossing to see him out. “Of course. Take all the time you need with it.”

“I- I’m-” Rummond hesitated. He realized that he looked down at his hands, and he forced himself to look up at the doctor. “I’m sorry about your crickets,” he apologized.

Dr. Hopper’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “They’re all fine. No harm done. But thank you.” He smiled a little. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

Rummond nodded and reached for the door handle, letting himself into the hallway.

As usual, the doctor followed, stopping to speak with Graham. He waited until his patient had taken a few steps away, before giving Graham a whispered request. “When you get him back, would you send Nurse French to me?”

With Graham’s nod, he stepped back into his office. There would be a fair few minutes before Nurse French came in. Dr. Hopper locked his door and sat down at his desk. The bit of professional distance he allowed for broke. He took his glasses off, setting them carefully aside, and covered his eyes with his hand.

What Captain Gold carried around, the crushing combination of his patient’s experiences… And not only those during the war. He wasn’t sure how the man functioned as well as he did, and he admired him for it. He himself had been exempt from the battlefield by virtue of being a doctor. He had never been more glad of that or felt more guilty for it at the same time. Perhaps this was his form of payment for being fortunate in that, carrying the stories the men under his care told him.

Still, he knew that the knowing of it didn’t touch the horror of having experienced it.

There was a small knock. He quickly fished a clean handkerchief from his satchel to blot at his eyes, replaced his glasses, and went to let Nurse French in.

“Come in, have a seat,” the doctor said, gesturing inside. Belle could tell that he had been upset. She took the place next to the sofa arm, assuming it was where he meant for her to sit, since there was a chair turned to face it. The cushion still held warmth, and she was glad for the way it felt at the small of her back while it lasted.

Dr. Hopper sat down in front of her. “Captain Gold told me today.”

Belle sighed. “Finally,” she said, tension releasing from her shoulders. That made his condition when Graham brought him back to the ward all the more understandable. And the pink of the doctor’s eyes and nose, as well.

Dr. Hopper smiled, understanding her anticipation. “I wouldn’t ordinarily exchange information with anyone else, but… I have some things to ask.”

“Oh,” she said, not having expected questions. “Ask away.”

“He told me about a boy - Collingwood? - who triggered a mine while the rest of them were nearby. Captain Gold sounded as if he was quite close. He told you how he felt afterward?”

“Collingwood.” Belle confirmed. She frowned, remembering the Captain’s face as he’d told her. “He was devastated. His squadron - he loved them all.”

“Oh, yes, I know, his emotional state.” Dr. Hopper nodded. “But I’m speaking of the physical. Did he say anything to you about how the mine affected him?”

She nodded back to him. “He did. He said… his ears buzzed. And his head hurt for days.”

“When he was telling me about- well, the forest, he mentioned feeling slow. He talked about feeling hazy and not really knowing how much time had passed between the farmhouse and the hospital, until he’d been told.” Dr. Hopper tilted his head toward Nurse French. She had spent a good amount of time field nursing. She would recognize what he was saying. “He has difficulty concentrating with the written word still.”

“He had a _concussion_.” She groaned at how obvious it was, being spelled out for her. “Which apparently no one so much as looked for, when he was taken in.” It was likely that no one had cared enough to, after the farmer filled his retrievers’ ears full.

“Quite a severe one, I suspect.” Dr. Hopper sat back, taking a small silk handkerchief from his pocket to clean his glasses. “Now, much of it could be attributed to his diagnosis. A concussion doesn’t mean that some of the symptoms didn’t surface with shell shock. But those immediately after the explosion, they were part of the physical injury, I believe.”

“Did you tell him this?” she asked.

“I haven’t yet. His condition today, I don’t believe it would have sunk in well.”

“It’s healed, by now. As well as it will.” Belle’s brow drew. If they had taken measures to help him soon afterward, or even when he got to the field hospital, the lasting effects might not have been as severe. “Do you think it will help him to know?”

Dr. Hopper nodded, slipping his glasses back into place. “I believe it might give him some small measure of comfort, to know that his slowness in reaction wasn’t because of this perceived cowardice.”

“It would be good for him to know. Next session, if you can?” She felt presumptuous even asking, but _anything_ that could legitimately help Captain Gold, she wanted done sooner rather than later.

“If he seems able to handle it,” the doctor agreed, giving her a smile. “I don’t mean to keep you from your work, though. I only wanted to discuss that a bit.”

“Oh, no, thank you for telling me!” Belle stood, and he stood politely with her. “I always want to know as much as possible. The more I know, the easier it is to figure out how to help.”

She went back to the ward feeling more optimistic for Captain Gold than she had in quite a while.

Belle found him curled in his bed with an extra blanket pulled close around him, and she knew she had Graham to thank for that. His eyes were closed, and she almost didn’t go over, so that he would keep them shut and perhaps sleep. Before she could turn away, though, he looked up at her. 

She went over to sit with him, knowing she would have to speak first. She didn’t inquire after how he was - that much was quite obvious - but she did ask, “Are you warm enough?”

Rummond nodded. After the trip back through the hospital to return to the ward, he’d felt strangely cold. Enough to shiver. Humbert had fetched him a blanket without being asked. “I ha-” He stopped, clearing his throat of the lump that seemed to have settled there after the appointment. “I have a favor to ask.”

Resisting the ‘anything’ that she nearly spoke, she raised her brows in question.

“I did something last week that stepped on Dr. Hopper’s toes,” he admitted, pushing himself into a leaning position so that he didn’t have to get out from under his blankets. “I want to apologize in more than words. Do you think you could find a book for me?”

“You asked the right person.” She nodded. He couldn’t know of the library that she curated for herself at home, but she was proud to be asked to hunt down a book, anyway. “What title?”

Rummond found a small, crooked smile for her, relieved at her willingness to help him. “I’m not certain. The topic isn’t quite my purview. Would it be possible to find a book of some manner on crickets?”

“Crickets?” Belle grinned. It wasn’t as if Dr. Hopper hid his interest in the insects, but it tickled her that Captain Gold had noticed. “He does have a bit of an affinity for them, doesn’t he?”

“Something newer, if you can find it, that he might not yet have. Anything would do.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll find something,” she promised.

“I have access to one of my accounts.” Meager though it was, he _could_ pay for the book. “Do you have a fountain pen?”

She reached into her apron pocket. “I have a pencil somewhere…”

“No, it must be a pen.” He shook his head, sitting up properly, and the blankets slid off his shoulder. He reached over to open the bedside table drawer, taking a checkbook ledger smaller than his hand from the very back. Unsnapping it, he asked across to Hargreaves, “Have you a fountain pen?”

Jefferson reached into his own drawer to pull one out, warning before he tossed it over, “It’s temperamental.”

Steadying the ledger on his leg, Rummond signed a check for her and made note of it on the stub, leaving the amount blank.

“You trust me with a blank check?” she asked as he tore it off and held it out to her.

“There isn’t enough in there to trouble oneself with stealing,” he said. “But, yes.”

She took the check from him and looked at it when he handed the pen back to its owner. “Stephen Drummond?” she read, giving him a curious look.

He closed the snap of the ledger again, frowning as he put it away. “My father had my savings and bank accounts frozen when I went on trial,” he told her quietly. It was far from legal for Malcolm to have been able to do so, but since when had his father adhered to legalities for anything? The only good point to it was that it meant Milah couldn’t empty the accounts, either. He intended to hire a lawyer to try and get his money into his own hands, once he got out of hospital, but he feared it wouldn’t be so easy. “I had to open an account under an assumed name.”

Belle tucked the check into her pocket until she could go and hide it in her purse. “So who is this ‘Stephen Drummond,’ then?”

“My middle name and my mother’s maiden name.” He smiled.

“Drummond,” she repeated. “Is that where-”

“My mother named me,” he said with no small amount of pride. He had nothing else of her, but his name was something he carried with him. The only thing of hers that his father couldn’t sell or trade away.

Belle smiled back at him. “It’s a lovely name.”

One of the ward doors opened, and Belle looked up to see a man striding in. He was tall and wore an ill-fitting suit, holding a slim attaché case carried down by his side. The man stopped and looked around. He stopped Ruby as she passed, and she pointed in Belle’s direction.

Rummond eyed the greasy-looking man who was swiftly making his way in their direction. He’d attempted to style himself upper class, but it was a badly-done job. There was far too much pomade in his hair. Rummond could smell the staled perfume of it when he came close, and it turned his stomach before the man even opened his mouth.

“Are you Captain Rummond Gold?” he asked, neither giving nor waiting for a proper greeting.

“Aye, I am… And you would be?”

“Keith Ingham. I’m here to see that you get these.” He produced a thin sheaf of papers from his bag and held them out.

Rummond took them. A barrister, then. That didn’t bode well at all. He turned the papers around to look at them, and he went hot and cold all over. _“Divorce papers?”_ he choked.

“Oh- I- should I-” Belle began, pointing aside, thinking she should likely leave them privacy. She stood, but didn’t manage to walk away.

“So you can read,” the man observed snidely. “I wasn’t told what to expect.”

Rummond didn’t answer her, but gaped from the papers to the barrister and back again. He should have been expecting them someday, he knew. But for the papers to have been delivered here, it meant that Milah seemed to have been in contact with his father. It must have absolutely thrilled Malcolm, to not only get to be the one to tell Milah the news of his son’s hospitalization, but to have a hand in serving the divorce papers, as well.

“You’ll need to sign those.” Ingham pulled a pen from the bag and held it out, giving it a prompting shake near Rummond’s face.

Belle risked being told to keep her nose out of Captain Gold’s business and stepped in. “Don’t people typically take time to read papers of this type before signing them?”

Ingham looked her up and down, leering, but ignored her otherwise. “Sign,” he repeated. “I’ll have them in the other party’s hands by the morning.”

“I- I-” Captain Gold shook his head, and Belle knew she wasn’t imagining the sudden ashen look to his face. “I don’t- I should read them?”

 _“Yes,”_ Belle told him. “You should read them.” She rounded on the barrister, who seemed greasier every time she had to look at him. “And you can come back for them when he sends for you. I can have an orderly show you out, if you can’t find the way.”

Ingham scoffed at her, yet again ignoring her. She half turned and waved a hastening hand at Graham, who was helping Tillman back into bed. He finished the task quickly and came right over. “Mr. Ingham here needs help finding an exit,” she said.

“If you lay one finger on me, I will sue you for everything you’re worth,” Ingham sneered.

Graham gave him a very unimpressed look. “I’d like to see you try it. I’m sure you’d look quite fetching on my bicycle.”

The barrister, extremely nonplussed by the lack of respect for however he must have viewed his position, snarled at Graham the entire way out.

“Captain Gold?” Belle asked. He sat with the papers on his folded legs, holding onto them with both hands as he read them with a stricken expression. She sighed and sat down next to him again, now intent on staying until she had to do her late morning rounds. 

“I’m right here,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. “If you need anything, I’m right here.”


	20. Or by Crook

It had been just over a week since the leering barrister oozed onto the ward. She felt as if he’d left something slimy behind - and Belle supposed he had. It sat in the Captain’s bedside table drawer, where she’d seen him hide it beneath the other contents.

She couldn’t help but wonder what his wife had claimed. It wasn’t an easy thing for a woman to obtain a divorce, or even to get a barrister or solicitor to give her the time of day, once she brought the word into conversation. Certain grievances against one’s husband were the only way to push a divorce through the courts, and she couldn’t imagine Captain Gold having committed any of them.

Either way, the arrival of the papers had unsettled him to the point of losing what little sleep he had been managing, and having difficulty eating. Again. And Belle could have throttled the woman for it. She’d once more had to take to sitting through meals with him, poking at him to eat. It wasn’t that she _minded_ \- she only wished he could have more than a few days of peace and functioning semi-normally before something else fell in on him.

Sunday came around, and she dreaded it for him. His mood was dark enough on Sundays without such a reminder of his situation sitting a foot and a half to his right. She made certain to get as many of her morning tasks done as quickly as she could, so that she would have to be off the ward as little as possible after visitors began arriving. She sacrificed sitting with him during breakfast to finish up, but made it in time enough to be nearby when people began to wander in, and sat with him while he snubbed his lunch.

She held a bit of dread of her own, as well. While Nurse Mills hadn’t allowed her the entirety of her Sunday through Monday shift off, she had been given a few hours of the afternoon. The engagement party that her father had been planning for months would take place today at two, and she was nowhere near as excited as she thought she probably should be. 

“Would you eat a peppermint?” Belle sighed after watching him stir the steak pie and peas on his plate into a thoroughly unappetizing mush. 

His stomach felt hollow, but not hungry, and the thought of cramming food down made his mouth water with nausea. Rummond shook his head, taking the tray off his lap and setting it behind her on the mattress. 

“Is there anything you think you _could_ eat?” she asked, willing to turn the hospital upside down for it, if he could tell her something.

He shook his head again. “It isn’t the what,” he said quietly, looking up at her with a weary, forced smile.

“There’s nothing you think you might be able to stomach?”

“No. Thank you.” He reached over to his table for the cup of tea she’d brought him. It had long gone tepid, but he had taken a few sips in between holding it to his chest. There was just enough warmth left in the ceramic that he could feel it soak into his palms.

Belle watched as he looked into the cup. She’d put cream and sugar in it, so that was _something_ , at least. He took very little sugar and no cream, but she pretended to have forgotten, knowing that he wouldn’t kick up a fuss over it today.

Rummond didn’t talk about the papers. Not to Nurse French, not to Dr. Hopper. He made an attempt to forget about them altogether, which worked approximately as well as trying to forget about anything else had. He wished he could sleep. He could escape in sleep, if only for a few hours at a time, and even though everything waited for him when he wakened.

“I found that book,” Nurse French told him, and he looked up at her, surprised with her step away from the topic of food so soon. “About crickets? For Dr. Hopper. The shop didn’t have it in, but the owner said he knows where to find one.”

“Thank you,” he repeated. He wasn’t sure he’d thought of the book since first asking her about it, everything else cluttering his mind.

She gave him a smile that felt only slightly less dilute than his own. “It wasn’t a problem at all.”

 _“Nurse French!”_ the head nurse snapped from the front of the ward.

Belle startled and stood immediately, feeling as though she’d been caught out. “Yes, ma’am?”

Nurse Mills walked over, looking down her nose at the younger nurse. “Lieutenant Tillman is due for a linen change, I believe. If you can take a few moments out of your busy social calendar.”

“I was only-” Belle cut herself off. Arguing wouldn’t help. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll see to it.”

She waited for the head nurse to step away before turning back to Captain Gold. “I’ll be back in a while,” she said, and headed off to retrieve a set of bedclothes. 

He wasn’t sure whether it was nerves or exhaustion, but Rummond could feel his insides shake. Realizing how cold the cup in his hands was, he set it down and shifted his position to face a bit further away from Lieutenant Hargreaves’ family, now that Nurse French was gone. It hurt, just now, seeing the few families who came to visit their husbands and fathers. He was glad of there being no visitors for Booth, so that he could keep them all out of his line of sight even if not from hearing them. Taking the book from the corner of his table, he opened it in his lap. It was better than staring into empty space.

Belle made her trip down to the laundry as quick as possible, after finding that the linens closet had no pillow cases on the shelves. She came back with a fresh stack of bedclothes held in her arms, finding herself just preceded onto the ward by a man in a black boater with a thin leather band. His suit was tailored too closely, but it appeared to have been made so on purpose. Even his overcoat was buttoned far too tightly around him, though the buttonholes didn’t strain.

“Can I help you find someone?” she asked with a polite smile when she had to steer around him, where he’d stopped inside the doors. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you visit before.”

He spared her a glance, removing his hat, and scanned the room with cool blue eyes, apparently knowing who he searched for. “Already found him, luv. ’Scuse me,” he said with a broad smile that raised the hair at the back of her neck as he brushed past her.

She didn’t pay a great deal of attention to him, at first - people were in and out all day long on Sundays - and she went on to coax Tillman up from his bed.

Rummond felt himself being stood over a split second before he was spoken to.

“Funny, catching you with a book. Your wife said you could barely sign your own name.” 

His guts clenched at the voice. Another thing he should have expected, that he had allowed to sneak up on him. He hadn’t signed the papers and sent them back, and he knew Milah wouldn’t come after them herself. _Of course_ she’d sent her boy. He knew only vaguely who Killian Jones was, having met him once in passing as Jones was coming out of his house. _‘Welcome home, mate.’_ Three words, and the voice was seared into his mind. The name, he’d had thrown in his face like so much ice water not many minutes later.

His wife knew good and well he could read and write. Rummond wondered what else she’d been telling around, and quickly decided he was better off not knowing. “Perhaps my wife doesn’t know her husband as well as she assumes,” he said without looking up.

“Just as well, as you’ll not be her husband for much longer. Ingham said you sent him away saying you need to read the papers first. Milah had a laugh over it.” Jones smirked, an insolent curl in his upper lip.

Rummond grit his teeth, but when he didn’t take the bait, Jones snatched the book from his hands, throwing it to the floor. It went skidding off beneath Booth’s bunk.

Belle turned to look, her hands stilling in the middle of stripping a pillow of its case. Someday she would learn to pay attention to that prickly feeling, but apparently today had not been that day.

“Have you signed the papers?” Jones tossed his hat onto the bunk.

Pulling all the composure he could manage around himself, Rummond regarded Jones calmly. “Haven’t yet had the chance.”

“Have you bloody _read_ them, seeing as you’re so intent on it?”

“I read them through.” He had read them a dozen times the day the barrister dropped them off, but they’d been condemned to the drawer since.

“Then _sign them_! She’s done with being married to a coward,” Jones snapped, leaning in to speak low, teeth bared to sneer. “Oh yes, I’ve heard _all_ about you.”

Losing her ability to keep up with what went on between Captain Gold and the stranger due to lowered voices, Belle hurried to get Tillman’s bed made up, tucking the sheet and blanket tightly around the end of the mattress. She couldn’t just leave him standing next to it. 

“I’ll sign them when I’m ready,” Rummond said, voice low, his own expression growing a bit toothy as Jones touched on his temper.

“Where are they? Where’ve you hidden them?” Jones seethed, and he went for the footlocker, raising his foot and bringing his heel down against the lock and latch to break them. He flung the top open, slamming against the bed’s metal footboard, and began pulling Rummond’s belongings out, tossing them aside. When he was done and found nothing, he went for the bedside table, yanking the drawer from its track. The contents fell to the floor, and Jones picked up the splayed set of divorce papers, shaking them at Rummond.

Belle got Lieutenant Tillman sat on his bed, and she started cautiously over. Everything about the man standing over her patient felt threatening, and not only because he was tearing everything apart. “Captain Gold?” she began, and the stranger gave her such a sharp look that she reeled back a step.

“You’ll sign these today!” Jones shouted.

Rummond pushed aside the hand shaking the papers in his face. “I’ll sign them when I’m damn good and ready!”

For a moment, in the midst of the two men yelling, the ward went silent. Then the servicemen began to yell and jeer, themselves, their families standing back in shock at the commotion.

Jones wrapped a hand around Rummond’s arm, pulling him up from the bed, blanket and all. He backed him against the table, pressing close so that he couldn’t move away, and crammed the sheaf of papers against Gold’s face. “You’ll sign them and I’ll have them filed before the morning chamberpots are cold.”

“Graham!” Belle called, but a look told her he wasn’t on the ward. She was drowned out, anyway.

Jefferson, one of few not whooping at the spectacle, hopped up, moving his wife carefully aside, and crawled right over Rummond’s bunk to place himself where he thought he could help.

Rummond had a hand planted against Jones’ shoulder and Jefferson tried to pull Jones’ hand off Rummond’s arm, one of his own hands pushing up on Jones’ chin at the same time in an attempt to force him back.

Arguments, Belle would step into, but she knew she would only be endangering herself to get in the middle of such a physical altercation. She ran for the door and called down the corridor for Graham, hoping that he was somewhere nearby enough to hear. When she turned back, it was just in time to see Jones’ fist connect with Jefferson’s jaw, sending the lieutenant scrambling. The bedside table was knocked over with a _clang_ that resounded through the ward.

Belle stood with the door propped open, glancing back, needing Graham to _hurry_ , because it didn’t seem as if anyone else able would step in. At last she heard running footsteps, but everything was happening at once.

With Jefferson down, Jones wrenched Rummond around, bending him over with a hand clamped at the back of his neck to push his head inches away from the mattress. Rummond’s hands shot out to catch himself, and Jones slapped the creased papers in front of his face. He took a pen from his coat pocket and pushed it beneath Rummond’s hand.

The bastard had fifty pounds and half a head on Captain Gold, and while Belle was fairly positive that her patient could take him in a fair fight, the Captain was sleep deprived and malnourished, and this was anything but. 

“Sign the fucking divorce papers, or I’ll make your son’s life as miserable as yours,” Jones hissed near Rummond’s ear, squeezing his neck and giving him a shake.

Rummond clenched his fist around the pen, and he signed. He signed each of the spaces marked for signatures as Jones flicked the pages over, and when he was done, Jones pushed him to the floor.

“Him, he’s causing trouble,” Belle said, pointing and fumbling for words in her fluster as Graham came in, following him over.

“No need,” Jones said as the orderly approached him. His demeanor changed again as he took his hat from the bed along with the papers, grinning and brushing down the front of his coat as if he’d sullied it. “Pleasure doing business with you, _Captain_ Gold,” he sneered, shoving his shoulder into Humbert’s as he walked away.

Jefferson called after him, “Your hat doesn’t fit properly!” as if it were a grand insult, looking as flustered as Belle felt.

Jones placed said hat on his head and gave it a tap before swinging the ward door open hard.

Belle looked at Jefferson in exasperation, and he made a defensive gesture before picking his way through the mess on the floor to return to his wife and daughter. She turned to Graham. “Please make certain that he leaves?” she asked, and Graham went to shadow the man out, to be sure.

“Captain Gold, are you all right?” she asked, squatting down next to him.

He couldn’t bring himself to look at her. “Fine,” he managed to whisper through his humiliation. His face burned with it.

“You aren’t hurt? He was-”

“I’m fine,” he clipped, and she stood when he began moving as if to get up from the floor.

“Here, let me help?” she said, reaching out.

Rummond pulled his arm away before she could touch him. He got to his feet on his own, and sat quietly on the side of the bed. He leaned forward, elbows digging into the tops of his thighs, holding onto fistfuls of his hair as he tried to hold himself together.

There had never been any hope of Milah coming back. He’d known, really, that she was gone. Of _course_ she was, and now having more firsthand experience with Jones, he could understand it all the better. Jones was just the type of man that her eyes had always lingered on when he took her out on the town. But he could feel his hopes of ever seeing his son again guttering, and pain bloomed beneath his ribs in the emptiness left behind. He felt sobs trying to push their way out, and he struggled to choke them back.

Belle began picking up his belongings. She didn’t know how they had been arranged in the footlocker, but she could put them away for him, at least. She made a pile of clothing, and knelt in front of the plain wooden chest to fold and put them away. “The lock is-” she sighed. The lock itself was bent and the latch ripped out of the wood. When she touched it, the piece attached to the front fell off. “But we can have another brought in. Don’t worry about that.”

She heard a whimper first, but it was the sobbing yelp that made her look to him. He let go of his hair to reach for the pack of cards near his feet, flinging it against the nearest support post, and the cards went scattering. His eyes landed on an errant tin of boot polish, and he picked it up, throwing it through the room. It narrowly missed Corporal Knight, bouncing off across the other side of the ward.

Belle stood slowly. The soft chatter that had resumed after Jones left silenced again, and the only sound ringing out was Captain Gold’s grief.

He reached next to the overturned table for the heavy cup that had held his tea, now pooled beneath the piece of furniture. For a second, he squeezed his hand around it, wondering if he could break it in his grip and what it would do to his palm if he could. After a moment, he threw it at the windows with a broken grunt. It went through the lower right corner, taking a few panes of leaded glass out with it.

A pair of orderlies - Quinn and Gardner, who of course could hear something happening on the ward _now_ , Belle thought bitterly - came in and began edging closer to the Captain. They would only antagonize him, make it worse, she knew. And it would give them an excuse to take him to Dr. Whale, if they got him off the ward. She wouldn’t have that. She headed them off, crossing the path of her patient’s tantrum to stop them, physically pushing them away.

“ _No_ ,” she said, first giving Gardner a push that had little effect, then planting her hands against Quinn’s chest to shove him back. “He isn’t hurting anyone. Just _leave_. He’s had some bad news about his family.”

The bit about family made them hesitate, to her surprise. They didn’t leave right away, but neither did they provoke him.

Captain Gold seemed to run out of steam. His shoulders slumped, and he brought his hands together, wrenching his wedding ring off his finger. Belle watched as he limped over to the window, throwing it as far as he could through the broken panes. He turned, and she could see the lack of focus in his flushed face. He sat down hard, collapsing to the floor on the other side of Tillman’s bedside table as if his body had given up on holding him upright, and leaned against the wall with his knees drawn close.

Belle went to him, kneeling between him and the rest of the room, so that as few people as possible could see.

“I couldn’t even keep my family,” he breathed raggedly. He no longer had even the energy it took to shut down to keep himself from crying in the middle of the ward. “What kind of man can’t even keep his family?”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered back to him. “It’s not right. Any of it.” Her arms ached to reach out for him, but she wrapped them around her middle to remind herself not to. It killed her, having to watch him suffer while being unable to comfort him with anything more than words.

Eventually, he regained a hold. As if the humiliation of being unable to fight Jones wasn’t enough, he had continued to make a spectacle of himself. Rummond scrubbed at his face with his hands, his gaze flickering up to Nurse French and away again. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“It’s… understandable.” She couldn’t tell him that it was all right or acceptable, throwing things as he had, but she thought she understood the grief behind it. “Look, why don’t we get you back to your bed?” she suggested gently.

He nodded, and she moved so that he could stand. He went slowly and she shepherded him back over, pulling his blankets onto the bed again when he’d sat on the edge. Graham had returned and cleaned up the spill of tea. He’d righted Captain Gold’s table, and was picking up the contents of the drawer when she got him back to his bed. 

“I’ll fetch a clean blanket for you,” she said, going back to finish cleaning up the rest of his things.

“No need.” He shook his head.

“It’s no trouble, I-”

“Belle, it’s past time,” Ruby interrupted from behind her.

Belle looked up, then checked her watch. “Oh…” She frowned. “I have to go. I should have gone fifteen minutes ago.” She knew why Graham hadn’t been able to leave yet, but Ruby must have been waiting for her, as well.

She stood and dusted her hands on her apron. “My- there’s a dinner party. My father and- and-” Belle shook her head, not sure why she couldn’t quite get the word ‘fiancé’ out.

Captain Gold looked nothing more than a kicked puppy when she looked back to him, and his expression tugged at her heart. She was dismayed a second later to see him force it away, and an old mask of uncaring that she hadn’t seen in quite some time slid back into place.

“Go, go,” he said, flicking his hand dismissively toward the ward doors. His gesture and tone were both halfhearted. “You’ve important people waiting for you, then, Nurse French.”

“I won’t be gone all night.” Belle hesitated, finding that she didn’t _want_ to go. “You’ll find someone to watch after him before you leave, won’t you?” she asked Graham, pulling him aside.

Graham nodded, walking along with her to the doors. “Nurse Nolan will keep a fine eye on him, once Regina leaves for the day.”

“Jefferson will watch him, I think. If he’s doing well, himself.” She reached into her apron pocket and brought out a few pieces of candy. “Leave those with him? And find him a clean blanket.”

“I will.” Graham grinned as he took them. “Go on, now. You’ll be late for your own party.”

Belle looked around her friend to see Captain Gold smoothing the rumpled pages of the book, where it had landed awkwardly. She smiled at him, though he wasn’t looking, and made herself leave.


	21. A Moment's Notice

Rummond sat with a pair of clean blankets pulled around him and Lieutenant Hargreaves’ book to keep him company simply laid open in front of him. He hadn’t managed to read a word that he could remember since the Thursday before, so submerged in heartache that he could barely come out of his own head.

The ward had smelled of tobacco smoke off and on all afternoon and into the evening. Friends and family visiting meant incoming treats and not-quite-necessities that the hospital didn’t supply. Few were selfish with their cigarettes, knowing that what went around came around as far as availability and affording were concerned. Even Booth had offered to him, bringing out a pack of expensive-looking cigarettes in black papers. He _wanted_ one, but declined, and proceeded to fidget and squirm for an hour before giving in to temptation.

“I changed my mind,” he said, pushing his covers back and crossing to Booth’s bunk to take one from the offered pack of Sobranies. He let the boy light it for him before taking it over to the corner by the privy to be semi alone.

He took the first, deep pull from a cigarette in nearly two months, hollowing his cheeks as he drew air through the fancy filter, and relished the way the smoke temporarily warmed in his lungs. He closed his eyes to the slight spin it gave his head, pushing away the nagging feeling that it was a _bad_ idea, and exhaled a stream of opaque white smoke from his nose and mouth on a deep sigh. It curled away on the air. A half dozen inspirations and his heart began to pound noticeably. The distracting fizz that it nurtured in his head felt good, though, and he did his best to ignore the way his stomach twisted with anxiety.

He smoked it nearly down to the gold filter before stepping into the privy to drown the embers’ last, glowing gasp in the sink and tossing it. Rummond went back to his bunk with nerves vibrating. 

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

The party commenced at seven, and that meant she could be back to the hospital by just a little after ten, if the guests behaved as proper guests did.

Belle was meant to be graceful and as calm as possible while she mingled among her guests in the parlor, to show that she knew how to run a competent staff. This was regardless of how little she actually had to do with the way the household was run, much to her father’s and Donat’s chagrin. She tried, though all evening she felt as though she had a flock of agitated birds beating around inside her.

Dinner was served promptly at eight. She sat to her father’s right at the table, and Donat sat next to her. Ruby sat on the other side of him, and Graham next to Ruby, alternating around the table with twenty guests in all. The full place settings and gold-rimmed china glinted in the light of electric bulbs covered with frosted globes, still rather novel to have in her home. 

The dinner and dessert tables were overtaken with exotic flowers and fruits and napkins folded into swans courtesy of the butler. There were enough kickshaws to please everyone, no matter their taste. Among the main offerings were foie gras and summer truffles, pheasant, woodcock, and fricando veal. The dessert table had been decorated with spun sugar and sugar flowers, crowded with pompadour cream, snow balls, rose blancmange, raspberry charlotte russe, and later there would be floating islands and _ice cream_.

It was all meant to showcase wealth, and she was not at all fond of the trouble and pomp of it. However, Belle was nothing if not the dutiful daughter, and she curtsied and small-talked her way through, smiling smiles that she didn’t feel at people she barely knew.

All evening, her thoughts continued to circle back around to Captain Gold. She wondered if he still sat on his bed where she left him, or whether he had retreated to the supply closet to grieve in private. When the wife of one of her father’s business associates _ooh_ ed and _ahh_ ed over the impending fact of strawberry ice cream, Belle wondered how feasible it might be to take the Captain a bowl, whether it might be a bowl of milk by the time she got it there, and what the chances were of him eating it.

The entire affair _was_ lovely, but she wanted to be in her uniform and back at the hospital far more than she wanted to be in her party dress here in the middle of this right now.

Belle’s pheasant and lemon asparagus had just been placed before her and she was resisting the urge to fiddle with a curl that tickled her neck, when their butler stepped into the room. He approached her chair and leaned to speak quietly.

“Miss French, your hospital has just called,” he whispered over her shoulder, hands held at his back. “Nurse Mills asks to relay a message. Captain Gold has ‘snapped’ and turned his bed upside down. He hasn’t begun throwing things, but he appears to be having a breakdown. No one else on shift can calm him, and she requests that you return as soon as possible, or she will be forced to have the orderlies ‘jacket him’ and place him in confinement until Dr. Whale returns in the morning.”

Her heart dropped at ‘hospital’ and sank further with every sentence afterward. She took her napkin from her lap and placed it on the table, pushing her chair back, and spoke loudly enough for the rest of the table to hear. “Excuse me. I’m so sorry. I have an emergency to attend to.”

Donat, rising as she stood, looked at her in confusion. She stepped away from the table before either he or her father could attempt to delay her. For once, the head nurse’s intrusion had been welcome - though Belle was sure the woman meant it as anything but. 

She heard her father’s false society laughter as she hurried from the dining room, and some of the guests joined him when he chortled a merrily exasperated, “Children!”

Graham, Ruby, and Donat all were not far behind her, she discovered as she went into the foyer.

Trust Ruby to not mince words. “What kind of emergency?”

“Captain Cold is… having a bad night,” Belle said, attempting understate it in her fiancé’s presence.

“This is-” Donat began, but he didn’t get to complete the thought

“It must be more than a bad night, if Nurse Mills _called_ for you.” Ruby narrowed her eyes. 

“She’s threatening to put him in a straitjacket and give him over to Dr. Whale in the morning.” Belle’s frown grew more dismayed than she quite intended.

“Do you want me to come along?” Graham asked.

Belle shook her head. “No, no, stay and enjoy the party, please?”

Donat interrupted before he could be cut off again, himself. “This is the pilot you say saved your life?”

“Yes, Captain Gold, he- _Oh_ ,” she huffed in frustration, searching through the coat closet that sat in the small room off the foyer for one of her own coats. The guest coats and wraps were stuffed in, pushing her things to the back. August or not, she needed something for her bare arms.

“Here,” Graham said, and he moved her gently out of the way.

“I’ll have the Douglas brought around,” Donat decided. He turned to head off to find her father’s driver. “You can’t ride that blasted bicycle this late.”

Belle wouldn’t argue; she refused such a ride to work every morning, but the situation was out of the ordinary.

“Shouldn’t you change?” Ruby asked, looking down at Belle’s dress, new for the occasion.

“I don’t have _time_.” Belle shook her head, and she felt something being held close. She looked over her shoulder to find that Graham had located a light coat that was just the thing. “Thank you,” she said, slipping her arms into the sleeves and pulling it closed around herself. “Go back in, have fun for me. I’ll see you tomorrow, Ruby, and you in a while, Graham.”

They saw her to the door, and she hurried into Donat’s cyclecar where it waited at the bottom of the steps. He closed the door when she had the hem of her dress tucked inside, and the driver took off with a pat to the roof.

The drive to the hospital was far quicker in the car than it ever was powered by her own two legs. 

“Shall I wait, Miss?” the driver asked when they’d arrived.

“No, thank you. I’m here for the night, now. Go on home,” she said, belatedly realizing she had only herself and no purse or anything else that usually accompanied her to work. “I’ll need picked up tomorrow evening.”

“Of course, Miss.” The driver touched the brim of his cap, waiting until she had disappeared inside before driving away.

Nurse Mills was waiting for her in the lobby when she arrived. “Oh dear, it seems that Captain Gold has interrupted something rather important, by the looks of you,” she said, falling into step beside Belle as she passed.

“Important, but not life or death,” Belle replied shortly, in no mood for her superior’s gibes.

“You had better take care,” Nurse Mills warned with a cruel smile hanging about her lips. “It’s a rather violent episode that your pet is having.”

She’d hoped that the head nurse would leave her be, once she got to the ward, but her luck was still failing her. Nurse Mills followed her right inside, though she stopped just by the doors. To have a good view, Belle was sure.

All of the visitors had been ushered out a bit early, it seemed, and the ward was quiet. The area around Captain Gold’s space was an absolute wreck. His bed hadn’t been turned upside down, but near enough. The mattress had been half pushed off the far side, bedclothes and all. His bedside table drawer was turned out onto the floor again, and it looked as if he had gone through his footlocker.

There were a couple of orderlies there nearby - Quinn and Gardner, unfortunately not having clocked out yet - but they weren’t helping. They stood there, one with a bottle of chloroform and the other indeed with a straitjacket slung over his shoulder, like a threat waiting. When she walked up, she saw Gardner elbow Quinn, and both their shoulders shook in laughter. That was just the topper for the day. Belle saw red.

“What is _wrong_ with you?” she hissed, pushing her way between them to break the connection. They looked at her as if she’d appeared from thin air. “Your shifts are over. Get out of here with that. _Now_.”

She must have appeared absolutely _done_ with everything and ready to break necks, because it took them no time at all to clear themselves off the ward.

Captain Gold was currently on his belly beneath the bedframe, arms sweeping back and forth as his hands patted the floor. It was obvious that he searched for something. None of what she saw appeared _violent_ , but he was clearly very upset. Jefferson sat on the far side of his own bed, appearing a bit shaken, himself. He had his hands pressed hard over his ears, and lowered them only when he saw her. Jefferson seemed also to be having a difficult evening after his earlier encounter with Captain Gold’s attacker.

She didn’t see the violence that Nurse Mills claimed. What she saw in the chaos looked like a struggle... Flailing like a man drowning.

Belle took off her coat and placed it on the chair where she spent her night shifts. “Captain Gold?” she said, approaching him. 

“I can’t find it! Where did it _go?”_ he said, strained and muffled by his position.

“He’s been talking at… something,” Jefferson told her with a quick shake of his head. “Not now, but earlier.”

He’d lost his robe somewhere along the way, and one of Captain Gold’s slippers had come off, the other barely hanging onto his foot. His exposed toes curled tightly as he pushed himself farther toward the head of the bed. When she stepped closer, she could see streaks and droplets of blood on the floor. Her heart beat faster; he’d been hurt? Some of what was on the tile appeared dried, some fresh - he was still bleeding. 

“Captain? What is it? What are you looking for?” she asked, stopping as she stood next to him.

“I need it. It’s all I have. I need it,” he murmured from the floor, near whimpering.

“What do you need? I don’t understand.” Belle squatted down, resting a hand on the side of the naked bedframe for balance.

“ _My boy_ ,” he snapped in despair.

She understood, at that. The little picture of his son. “Your photograph has gone missing?

“He was doing okay, until Mr. Lowell grabbed him,” Jefferson said, frowning, craning his neck as if he could see over the tilted mattress.

“Lieutenant Hargreaves.” Belle nodded and brought a finger to her lips. “Please?” she said by way of asking him to quiet, and he nodded back to her.

Rummond had looked _everywhere_. He thought perhaps it had gotten put away in the drawer or footlocker when the rest of the mess was being cleaned up earlier, but it wasn’t there. He’d even shaken out the book’s pages, just in case. Not there. Beneath the bed had seemed the last place it could possibly be, but _it wasn’t there_ , either.

“Captain Gold? Would you come out from under the bed?” she asked.

Belle leaned to catch the back of his escaped slipper with a fingertip, dragging it closer until she could grab it, and she set it where he could get it if he wanted.

He came out from under the bed, and his eyes slid right past her as he reeled back against the front of his table in panic, focusing behind her. He looked frightened. Still hallucinating, then. 

“Who is it, Captain?” she asked gently, shifting forward onto her knees to bring herself just a bit closer. “Which one?”

He wrapped his arms around himself. He’d gone so still, she could see a fold in the front of his gown shiver in rhythm with his heartbeat between distressed breaths.

“K-Kendrick,” he gasped, a breath hiccuping its way into him.

“Can you look at me?” She’d kept her hands to herself for two weeks now, but she reached out to touch his knee through his gown in an attempt to gain his attention. “Captain Gold. Can you look at _me?”_

It took a moment, but his eyes shifted focus onto her face.

“Nurse French…?” he croaked, looking at her as if he’d only just recognized her. He blinked hard, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, and they darted to either side of her again before hesitantly, flickeringly, meeting hers.

“Hey,” she whispered, pulling her hand away. She smiled a bit, now that he seemed to be coming back.

“Hey,” he echoed, but the hunted expression didn’t leave him.

Belle sighed. At least he had _some_ wits about him again. “Are you all right?”

Kendrick was a disturbingly solid presence beyond where Nurse French sat in front of him. He couldn’t help how his eyes were drawn to the bleeding, staring figure reminding him that his failures extended into _every_ part of his life.

Rummond wanted to say something more, to answer her, but he couldn’t force it out. There was nothing he could tell her that wouldn’t sound pathetic and broken. He ended up only shaking his head. He might not be able to put words to just how not all right he was, but he could move, if not speak.

Even through the way he tightened his arms, Belle could see how he trembled. She glanced around until she found what she recognized as the print of his robe.

“Hand me that, please,” she said to Jefferson, tacking on the politeness as she pointed out the garment where it had been flung or kicked partway beneath the Lieutenant’s bed.

Jefferson came around, picking it up and stretching to hand it to her, giving Captain Gold a careful look before he went back to his own bed.

She draped Captain Gold’s robe over him, tugging the hem down over his legs. “What is Kendrick doing?” she asked, hoping that her calm might be infectious. 

“Standing. Staring,” he whispered, looking past her again. Bleeding. Blaming.

He didn’t move to pull his robe on properly, so she reached to tug the collar of it to cover his shoulders. “He can’t hurt you,” she reminded him. It wasn’t much help, she knew. A thing didn’t have to touch you to cause pain.

From the corner of her eye, she saw someone else come onto the ward, and she looked quickly over. Graham. He appeared to have gone home to change and come right in. As much as she wished he could have stayed to enjoy the rest of the party, she couldn’t deny the relief felt in having him there to help.

Graham raised his eyebrows, asking a question with a tilt of his chin and a scan of his eyes. She nodded, and he made a wide circle to go around and slowly begin putting the bed to rights.

“Can you tell me what happened?” she asked. If she could get him talking, perhaps he could begin coming down from his panic.

Graham slid the mattress back into place and spread the bottom sheet over it, putting a knee on the bed to tuck it around so that he didn’t have to intrude. Belle saw a streak of blood on the top sheet when it went on. It would all need changing, but just now the point was repairing the chaos.

“I saw Kendrick.” Captain Gold’s shoulders shrugged inward, and he seemed to become smaller before her eyes. “I tried to ignore him. I wanted t- to see my son. I thought if I could see him… But the picture-” he said, and she could see agitation growing in him again. “I c- can’t find him.”

“We’ll find your picture,” she promised, and hoped very much that she could. _It’s all I have_ , he’d said when she came in, and she understood what he meant, now. 

Captain Gold looked up at her. “We will?”

“We will,” she said more firmly, making her smile as sure as possible.

Graham fanned the blankets to get them on the bed, creating a puff of air that disturbed Captain Gold’s hair and made him cringe.

“Can you do something for me?” Belle asked, encouraged when he lifted his eyes to her. “Come and sit on the bed, and let me take a look at your hand?”

“It’s fine,” he murmured. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

“Perhaps not, but I would feel much better if I could look and be sure.” She sat back on her heels, moving so that she could stand, if he would, too.

It took him a few moments, but he began to move. He pulled his legs under him to get up, leveraging himself with a hand on the bedside table. When he sat on the edge of the mostly-made bed, she sat next to him and pulled his robe away. 

Rummond held his injured hand out to her reluctantly, showing her the cut in the mound of his thumb. It looked worse than it felt; it hardly hurt at all. Nurse French did a good job of hiding her flinch, but he caught it, and felt all the worse for it.

“May I?” she asked, holding her hands open beneath his. She waited for him to give her a nod before touching his hand, bringing it closer to look. Nothing to worry about, he’d claimed, but there was blood run down his wrist, soaked into the cuff of his gown. The cut was fairly deep. It was still wide open, and there were shards of what appeared to be glass in it. 

Belle looked up, glad to find Graham hovering nearby. “Suture supplies, mercurochrome, salve, gauze,” she told him. “And a pair of fine tweezers.”

She pressed the sides of the cut together, working to stem the bleeding. It would stitch up well, once it had been cleaned. “How did this happen?”

“Nurse Nolan gave me water,” he said.

Belle looked at him and frowned, not connecting water to his injured hand.

Rummond’s head tilted in toward his shoulder in shame. The nurse had asked if he wanted water, and he had accepted. And the glass had felt so _thin_. He’d squeezed it the same way he had the tea cup earlier in the day, and the glass exploded where the cup had held. The physical pain had shocked away the pain in his chest for an instant, but the blood brought memories, which seemed to have brought Kendrick.

“I broke the glass,” he explained simply.

Graham returned with a basin of hot water and a metal tray holding the supplies she’d asked for. She looked up again, relieved to see that Regina apparently ceased to find the display entertaining and had left. “I’ll be right back,” she said, letting go of Captain Gold’s hand. “I’m only going to wash up.”

She crossed to the washroom, taking a fresh hand towel from the cabinet over the toilet before soaping her hands, meaning to keep as clean as possible. The very last thing Captain Gold needed in his physical state was an infection.

Rummond sat quietly with the orderly gathering the things he’d tipped out of the drawer again. Humbert seemed nothing if not patient, and he was glad of it. He watched the light in the privy go off, and received a shock when Nurse French came back out. 

He somehow hadn’t realized that she was out of uniform. Her hair wasn’t in the low, sleek bun he saw every day; her dark auburn hair was done up in a larger arrangement of curls pinned around the back of her head, and a sparkling headband was nestled in near the front. She wore a lacy, blue-green dress that glittered in the light, and her shoes clicked softly across the tile as she walked toward him. She looked like some manner of higher rank of angel.

She sat down next to him again, and held her hand out for his. Obediently, he gave it. She folded his gown sleeve back and wrung water from the cloth in the basin to wash the blood from his skin. Her touch grew more careful when she washed around the cut itself. She needn’t have been. Kendrick had disappeared, and he felt numb with _too much_. The small jolts of pain as she pulled slivers of glass from his hand came through very little. Propping her heels on the edge of the bedframe to bring her lap higher, she rested his cleaned hand on her leg. He could feel the spangles on her dress against his skin. 

When his hand began to shake, Belle curled her left hand over his outstretched fingers, as much to comfort him as out of need to keep him still. Graham opened the bottle of mercurochrome for her, and she let a few drops fall into the cut, wiping away the excess with the damp cloth.

“This will hurt,” she warned as she used both hands to thread the curved suture needle with silk.

“I’ve been stitched up before,” he said, having to swallow over the frog in his throat before he could speak. “And with far less care.”

He caught himself watching the way her earrings swayed ever so slightly as she worked. It took six of her small, immaculate stitches to close up his wound. She dabbed a bit of salve onto it and folded a pad of gauze to place on top before wrapping his palm securely with a longer piece.

“All done,” she said, letting the cloth fall into the blood-pinked water of the basin. 

His hand remained on her lap, and she left it, uninclined to move it herself. He seemed to be looking down at it, but he was unfocused, staring into the middle distance. Belle rested one hand across his wrist and the wrapped the other gently around his hand. Yes, he was starved for affection, she could tell that much. Starved for touch. Even if he would neither ask nor accept either. She tried to provide what she could in the simple touch she gave now, while he would allow it.

Graham cleared everything away. “I brought your uniform,” he told her quietly when he returned. “Your maid wouldn’t allow me to leave without it. It’s on the shelf in the supply closet.”

“Thank you.” She nodded, and asked softly, “Would you mind looking around for a small, loose photograph?”

He nodded back to her and began scanning the floor around the bed, walking to the other side.

“Captain Gold?” she said, squeezing his fingers. “You’re feeling better?”

“Better,” he repeated, though there was little meaning in it.

Belle tightened her fingers around his wrist this time. “Captain?”

He blinked, breathing more deeply, and his stare broke. He looked up at her in question.

“Are you feeling better?” she asked again.

“He’s gone,” Rummond said in answer. It wasn’t much headway toward ‘better,’ but it was one less thing crushing in on him.

Belle smiled. “Good. That’s good.” 

He looked down at their hands, realizing how she held onto him. For a while, he enjoyed it, though feeling as if he shouldn’t. Finally, his eyes caught on the ring that shone on her finger. His brow creased.

It took Belle a moment to understand what he was looking at. When she did, she slipped her hand away from his fingers, not entirely sure why her smile took an apologetic turn.

Rummond forced a smile. “C- congratulations,” he said, though his heart wasn’t in it. He castigated himself inside. He had no right at all to feel anything other than happy for her over news of her engagement. He was only her patient - one of dozens, at that. He was nothing. Less than. And she deserved that happiness.

“Thank you,” Belle replied, loathing how awkward such a silly thing as that ring had made the moment. “I need to go clock in for my night shift, I suppose,” she told him gently. She patted his wrist and reluctantly let go, waiting until he moved his hand before she set her feet on the floor and stood. Walking away somehow felt even more awkward.

Graham got up from the floor, from looking beneath the bed, and made note to bring in a mop tomorrow to clean beneath it. Finally, he moved the footlocker, and there he found it. The photograph likely slid beneath during the fuss earlier in the day. He dusted it off and brought it over. “Here, look what I’ve found.”

Rummond’s breath caught. He’d been afraid it was lost for good. He plucked it reverently from the orderly’s fingers and pressed it between his hands, that fear banished, and did his best not to examine the increased ache beneath his ribs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visual aids:  
> [Gaston's Douglas](http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HKAeBgPoWZk/UpXOoYgxsXI/AAAAAAACMLo/YxYSJdW_mck/s320/DOUGLAS+MOTOR+CORP+-+1919.jpg).  
> [Belle's engagement party outfit](http://cfc.polyvoreimg.com/cgi/img-set/.sig/6cxO0Lq3cJXKRxdZ6CIbQ/cid/155689296/id/2NdvBQzj5BGN9rIL7EzHKw/size/c600x953.jpg).


	22. Endured and Weathered

Belle woke to the sound of rain pattering hard against the windows. She didn’t recall being tired enough to fall asleep, but found her lantern burned out and the book borrowed from Jefferson the night before laying open across her stomach. Between the stress weighing on every minute practically since she’d clocked in the previous morning, the engagement party and being called away from it, she supposed it had caught up to her.

At least no one had caught her sleeping on shift. It was barely dawn, and not a single man on the ward was yet stirring. She was unsurprised to find that in Captain Gold’s case, this was because he wasn’t in his bed.

Setting the book down in her chair, she went to check. He would be in the north wing supply closet, she knew, but she wanted to make certain. Too much had happened over the last week for her to take it for granted. She tried not to reflect on anything after getting his hand wrapped up last evening, which meant that was all her thoughts wanted to dwell upon. 

She’d found herself crying in their wing’s supply closet as she changed into her nurse’s uniform, and she still wasn’t sure why. She’d put it off to stress, as well; there had been a great deal of it lately, between work and her engagement being officially announced. Surely that was it. After changing, she had brought clean bedclothes with her to re-make Captain Gold’s bed, and he’d stood by like a scolded child until she finished. She’d asked whether he minded if she sent his robe down to the laundry, and sent it with Graham to be dropped off on his way out. 

Belle blessed her friend again in her thoughts for staying two hours after his shift finished. He didn’t have to - he had a home waiting for him that he actually enjoyed getting back to - but he’d stayed late for her, and she was grateful.

“Captain Gold?” she whispered, sticking her head into the closet. When he didn’t answer, she stepped inside. “It’s Nurse French. It’s all right, I’m only-” She stopped when she rounded the center shelves and found no Captain Gold there.

In her rush and concern, it didn’t take her long to go from ward to ward to check each supply closet, figuring that they would be most familiar, if he were going to search out an alternate place of retreat. Finding him in none, she went back to the north wing and checked as many exam rooms as she could before she absolutely had to hurry back to her own ward without having laid eyes on her patient. The washroom was open and unoccupied, and his bed was still empty. She began to worry in earnest. She’d been so confident in her belief that she could find him when he snuck off the ward. It pained her to have to admit she was wrong about that. Checking her watch, she was dismayed to discover that it would be nearly another hour before Graham came in. She couldn’t search the entire hospital herself, not with the morning shift so close. All she could do was wait.

A few of the men had begun rousing. She returned Jefferson’s book and put her lantern away, and fetched aspirin for Lieutenant Booth, keeping herself busy. When she returned with a cup of water and a pair of pills in hand, the Lieutenant stood by the window, looking out at the rain.

“I think I’ve found something you’re missing,” he deadpanned, and as he walked away, he pointed out the window where a piece of wood had been nailed over the broken panes. “If you’re looking for Captain Gold, that is.”

Belle thrust the cup and pills into his hands and ran over. “In pouring rain!” she huffed, her concern giving way to worried anger. There he was, all the way around this side of the building, though she couldn’t see much more than the white splotch of his hospital gown through the rain-blurred glass. She stomped away to hunt down something to cover her head.

She found someone’s old black umbrella behind the front desk, and pushed it open as she stepped outside. She began making her way around from the front of the building, navigating around puddles and bare, muddy areas. It had been raining long enough to get the lawn good and squishy, and the low heels of her work shoes tried to sink into it.

“Captain!” she called as she spotted him, but the wind carried her voice away. He was on his hands and knees, combing through the grass, _and barefoot_ , God help her. The wind died down and she called out to him again, “Captain Gold!”

Rummond had tried to sleep. He’d lain there and pled with who- or whatever might be listening to the likes of him to just let him _go away_ for a few hours. The longer he lay awake in the dark, the heavier and more intrusive his thoughts felt, and the more he regretted throwing his ring away. By the time he saw first light, smothered though it was, the rain didn’t matter. He had to find it.

It never occurred to him that it might not be the _most_ sensible thing, sneaking outdoors at dawn during a rainstorm, or that he might be missed before he could get back in.

He didn’t look up, tearing at the grass with his hands, and pounded one fist against the ground in frustration.

“Captain Gold!” Belle snapped more loudly to be heard over the sound of the pouring rain, stepping nearer him. “What are you _doing?_ ”

Finally he looked at her, as if he weren’t sure where she’d come from. He stared, half limp and hollow-eyed, rain dripping from his nose and eyelashes and hair. His hospital gown was plastered to his skin, and she could see the terribly thin shape of him through it. He looked so _weary_ \- and in need of far more to mend it than sleep could provide.

“I’ve been searching for you!” she said, though the way he looked at her had collapsed the sails of her anger. “What are you doing out in the rain?”

“I need to find it…” Rummond shook his head. He couldn’t rest until he found it, hopeless as it seemed. A clap of thunder made him startle, setting his nerves further on edge.

“Your photograph?” Belle asked. “You have it. It’s-” Halfway through, she realized it wasn’t his son’s picture that he searched for. She remembered him flinging his wedding ring through the window. It would be right around here, if it were to be found.

He continued, pushing grass aside, though it wasn’t so long that it should hide much of anything. Belle had a passing thought about setting the umbrella down and helping him look, but when the lawn grew more waterlogged every moment and the rain fell so hard that it misted back up from the ground, it really was an impossible task. And he’d been out in it since who knew how long before she woke.

“Captain, please come inside?” she called to him when he pulled up another fistful of grass, roots and all, from the soaked ground. 

“No! No, I can’t. I haven’t found it yet.” He tried to shake away the hair that had washed into his face, doing little good.

His desperation made her eyes sting, and she was glad to have the excuse of the wind blowing rain into her face. “I’ll tell the groundskeeper; he’ll keep his eyes open for it. And perhaps you can come back once the weather is fair again. Just… please, come back inside?”

Rummond patted another section of ground in front of him, but he sat back. Guilt twisted inside him for having thrown the ring out. Milah had dissolved their marriage, but the ring she’d placed on his finger still meant something, even if that something no longer existed. He deserved to be reminded of the failure of it. But he’d brought Nurse French out in the storm, and he knew enough of her stubbornness to know that she would stand out in it until he relented, no matter the effects on herself.

Belle could see him waver, and she added another, _"Please?"_ to it. He finally knelt up, moving and placing a hand on his knee to leverage himself, and stood. His feet and legs were muddy, and to say the rest of him had been soaked through would be a glorious understatement.

“Let’s get you back inside, dry you off before you come down with something. Summer colds are the worst of the worst,” she said, and stepped closer, reaching toward him.

He pulled away and staggered, only then allowing her to wrap her arm around his waist to steer him, leaving a trail of murky rainwater behind them.

Belle breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing that Graham had clocked in. He had a heavy winter blanket and a clean hospital gown waiting on Captain Gold’s bed, along with a foot basin of hot water on the floor next to it.

Graham had arrived to find Lieutenants Hargreaves and Booth hovering at the broken window - Hargreaves with a frown, Booth with a smirk - and knew with a glance out what his first chores of the day would be. He asked Nurse Lucas to remind Nurse Lind at the front desk to put a call in to the glazier. He would have hallways to mop soon, but he couldn’t muster much annoyance. He had to fix up a mop and bucket anyway, and may as well make good use of it.

Rummond grudgingly allowed himself to be guided back to his bunk, and the orderly who so often traveled in a pair with Nurse French swung a thick blanket around his shoulders before he could sit down.

“You should put your slippers on, once you’re cleaned up,” Humbert reminded, squeezing Rummond’s shoulder before he left.

“Here, put your feet in here,” Nurse French insisted, moving a steaming basin over in front of him after taking a cloth from it. Rummond did as he was told. The water was cloudy; the orderly had gone so far as to put soap flakes in it. 

When she began squeezing water from the cloth over his legs, he curled his toes as if it would move him out of her way. “You needn’t,” he muttered. She had to do enough for him. Washing his feet and legs was not something he wanted to add to it.

She ignored his protests, though. “We’ll need to clean and bandage your hand again,” she said, gesturing to it.

He looked down at his hand, not surprised to find the gauze wet and dirty and streaked with grass stain. “I’m sorry to have caused you trouble. I thought I could find it quickly and be back in.”

“It isn’t that it was _trouble_ ,” Belle told him, frowning down at the rapidly muddying water so that she didn’t turn the expression on him. “I was worried. You disappeared, and I didn’t know where you were.”

Worried. She’d _worried?_ Over _him?_

“I’m sorry to have worried you, then,” he said quietly.

He sounded more himself - or the ‘himself’ she’d come to know between the depressed silences and fits of panic. Belle finished washing his legs, scrubbing gently at his knees to get them clean of dirt.

She picked up the basin and pushed his slippers over so that he could put his feet into them. “Don’t move. I’m going to get my supplies. Stay _right there_ ,” she said, as though she didn’t trust him to not vanish when her back had turned.

He shivered beneath the blanket and pulled it more tightly around himself. He hadn’t been so bone-cold since moving into the tenement, and it was just as unpleasant as he remembered.

Nurse French looked quite relieved when she returned to find him still sitting on his bunk. She brought a tray of supplies in one hand and a smaller basin of water in the other, a towel slung over her shoulder. After emptying her hands and sitting again, she pulled the towel down.

“Here,” she said, and draped it over top of his head, folding it back from his face. He caught her smile, her irritation with him appearing to have folded, and the painful tension in his shoulders gave way a little.

Belle held out her hand, waiting for his, and after a moment, he pulled it from the cocoon of the winter blanket to offer it to her. She would have to remember to ask Graham to bring out a clean one from storage for Captain Gold’s bed. It seemed as if it was a case of the more blankets the better with him.

“It didn’t get through to your stitches, at least,” she said after unwinding the gauze, glad she’d padded and wrapped it so well. It _had_ bled, though. She dropped the dirty bandages aside on the floor and began washing away the dirt and bloodstain. She could catch the other hand afterward. “What made you go out?” she asked softly with a shake of her head.

“I need my ring back.” He ducked his head a bit, but not enough that he couldn’t watch her hands work. He must have appeared so foolish to her, a young nurse about to embark on marriage to an undoubtedly statuesque gentleman, and all of the romantic notions that love brought with it. Lasting forever, and all that.

“Even though the… papers?” Nurse French continued, washing smudges of dirt from the creases in his knuckles.

“No paperwork can make it have never happened. Even if I no longer keep the ring on my finger, it shouldn’t be thrown away like so much rubbish. Not when it holds meaning.” He watched as she tilted his hand so that water wouldn’t run into his stitches, and squeezed the cloth above his palm. “Or… held.”

“What happened?” Belle asked, and immediately she frowned at herself for such a prying question. She didn’t expect him to answer her.

But after a moment, he murmured, “I was unfit to be a husband,” with his eyes solidly on her task as she gently dabbed salve over his wound once again, so that he didn’t look at her face.

She looked at him, though, her hands pausing. It seemed obvious to her that his wife had hurt him badly, and though Captain Gold had _said_ nothing, she suspected the man who had come in the afternoon before to knock him around of having something to do with it. _That_ one was no barrister by any stretch. There had been too much emotion on both sides for it to be some professional conflict.

Captain Gold sighed, and his shoulders went from relaxed to drooping. “She found someone who measured up.”

Belle felt her dislike for his wife and the violent stranger grow. “I’m sorry.”

“I’d never met him. Not properly. Suppose I still haven’t.” He pulled the blanket more closely again as well as he could with one hand. “As far as I know, having one’s face pushed into a mattress doesn’t count as introduction.”

Belle was dismayed to be right. The Captain’s wife had left him for that louse? She let go of his hand to fold another pad of gauze. “And your son is…” She hesitated, not sure how to phrase the question to cause the least hurt.

“Is with his mother. And Jones.” Captain Gold said, and the bitterness in these words was overwhelming. “In Ireland.”

Where he appeared not to blame his wife a great deal for leaving him, it seemed that he did hold a grudge against them for taking his son. Belle thought she could understand his feelings on it, to some degree.

His voice grew soft again. “I’m only surprised it took her so long to file papers. I’d’ve thought she would do it as soon as she set up house.”

“Why did she wait, do you think?” Belle asked. She spoke with as little interference as possible, offering only enough to demonstrate that she truly listened, and to encourage him to talk all he would. That he was volunteering so much without being prodded, she thought he must have had his absolute fill of it all.

“The way the papers were worded, their contents…” Rummond frowned. He knew, and he hated that he knew. “I believe they’ve decided to get married. I’m merely a loose end to tie up.”

Belle stopped, looking up at him again with wide eyes. There were divorces, and then there were _divorces_. For a woman to be able to divorce and remarry, certain things must be claimed. “Worded? So, she…?”

“She had the papers drawn up to divorce me on grounds of ‘adultery aggravated by desertion.’” He laughed, and it had a painful edge of hysteria to it. The utter _irony_ of her charges. He took a deep breath, and it hitched partway through.

“Couldn’t you fight it?” Belle asked. “Couldn’t you demand custody of your son?” Unfair as it was, the courts would, with few exceptions, reward fathers custody of their children if it were in dispute. “You could consult with a solicitor and hire a barrister of your own,” she suggested, trying to offer him a ray of hope.

Captain Gold took an easier breath. “I haven’t the money,” he admitted. “With my reputation on record, they’ll believe anything she has to say against me. And I won’t keep her married, if she wants out of it.” He could only imagine his baby boy calling that other man ‘papa,’ and it tore at his heart.

“Was there anything spelled out about custody in the papers?” she asked.

He shook his head. Milah had to have known it would damage her chances of him signing, if there were anything legally stealing his son from him. “What would I do, if I _did_ get him? Where would he go?” As much as he worried for his boy being with Milah and Jones, he had nothing at all to offer in his current situation. And if Jones could afford a barrister - even one such as Ingham - then surely they had a roof and food. Wasn’t that better than the nothing he himself had?

“When you get out of hospital, then?” Belle said. Perhaps if he had a _reason_ to reach for getting better. He didn’t care much for himself, but she could see that he loved his son more than all the world.

His lips pressed into a thin line. “I can’t imagine a solicitor who would accept my business.”

Rummond took his hand back, since Nurse French was busy otherwise, and freed the other to pull at the short tails of silk thread that tied the stitches off. It made the seam of the cut smart.

“Stop that.” She paused to push his hands apart, giving him a gentle scolding, “You’ll have it bleeding again.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “They’re my stitches.”

“They are _my_ stitches,” she told him, rising to his challenge. “And I’m quite fond of the artistry of them, so you’ll not ruin them before I’m ready to take them out.”

Rummond took his uninjured hand back inside the blanket, and he was fairly sure he didn’t imagine the smile she gave him.

She placed the pad over his stitches and wrapped it snugly with a length of gauze. “Let’s try and keep it clean and dry this time, hm?”

He cast a bit of a sidelong look her way. “I shall endeavor.”

“Other hand,” Nurse French said, and he extended it to her. She cleaned it more easily than the first, having no injury to avoid, and he watched her as if he could scarcely believe she was washing his hand for him.

“Is your hair dry?” she asked, cleaning up the supplies scattered between them on the bunk.

He reached up, rubbing his hair with the towel, doing it no favors. “Dry enough,” he deemed.

“Go and change, then. Get out of that wet gown.” Belle held the clean hospital gown out for him as he reluctantly emerged from the blanket. When he stood and started away, she reminded him quietly, “Smalls, as well.”

His face pinked, and he muttered, “I’m not a child,” but he had to go back to his footlocker for them.

Belle finished clearing her supplies away, and Graham came back onto the ward after mopping the corridor clean of rainwater. She asked him to bring out another winter blanket, and he fetched it back right away.

“I had to order a footlocker,” Graham said, standing aside while she folded the blanket across the end of the bed. It was nearing time for Captain Gold’s appointment with Dr. Hopper, and he was still on chaperone duty for a while longer. “I thought there might’ve been one in storage, but no go.”

“That’s fine,” she told him. It did please her a bit that he would get a brand new one out of the annoyance, though granted, the silver lining was a thin one.

His back facing the mirror, Rummond combed his hands through his hair to coax it somewhat flat. He considered belatedly that he should have taken his toiletry bag along. He stepped into his slippers, feeling not quite so chilled through, and took his things - now only damp for the most part - out with him.

“Poor man,” he heard Nurse French tut. She was turned away from the privy, missing him come out. “Seems as if he barely keeps his head above water.”

Humbert made a noise of agreement. “Can’t be easy, trying to come back from something like that, everything else piling on top.”

After discovering that Nurse French hadn’t repeated to Dr. Hopper all he’d told her, his trust in her had grown. He’d allowed himself to soften to her more, to say things to her that he wouldn’t tell the doctor. Had she really turned around so quickly and told her orderly friend? And to stand around feeling sorry for his pathetic situation…

Rummond pulled a neutral expression on as he headed back to his bunk, pity souring in his stomach.


	23. Unhappy in Its Own Way

He fiddled with the pocketwatch in front of him the same way he fiddled with his food when he was being observed, trying to appear busy and pretending to achieve something. His thoughts felt too disjointed to line them up in any meaningful way on his own. He was _ridiculous_. It didn’t matter what Nurse French thought of him. It didn’t matter that she thought him pitiful and pitiable... Only, somehow it did.

“Tell me about your marriage,” Dr. Hopper started in.

Rummond was taken aback. The doctor hadn’t jabbed a finger into that particular wound before, and to start _now?_

“What?” he asked, staring at the doctor. “Why would- did someone-”

Dr. Hopper gave him a sympathetic look - not quite a smile, though not a frown. “It’s, ah, a difficult place to keep a secret, a hospital. There was no one in particular, only the rumor mill,” he assured.

Rummond, however, did frown. Gossip. How heartening. “And what did you gather?”

“You had a visitor who rather unsettled you.”

A wry, unamused twist pulled at Rummond’s mouth. “...That would be a way to put it.”

The doctor made an accurate guess from the things he’d heard, “He caused you some emotional upheaval?”

“Oh, _some_ ,” his patient sneered.

“Captain Gold…” Dr. Hopper hesitated in the face of his absence of cooperation. 

“I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about her.” Rummond shook his head. “That isn’t why I’m here. She’s not in my life, anyway. Not anymore. I’ve not set eyes on her in more than a year.” He set down the pair of tweezers in his hand, picking up one of the screwdrivers with a finer blade, as if he were thinking about using it, and mumbled an acidic, “Besides, aren’t we here to _at some point_ talk about what’s driven me mad?”

“You are not mad, Captain,” Dr. Hopper said. “We’re here to talk about everything. Anything that concerns _you_. What about your son?”

Captain Gold visibly flinched. “What about him?”

“Is he not a part of your life?”

“Of course he is.”

“Although you haven’t seen him in over a year?” Dr. Hopper reasoned.

Captain Gold’s eyes narrowed a bit. “ _Of course_. He’s my _son_.”

“And Milah was your wife. She’s a part of your life - your son’s mother. She affects you, even if she might not be _in_ your life currently.”

Rummond wanted to dispute that ‘currently’ and modify it to something more permanent, but he let it go. “I take your point,” he said. “In regards to Neal.”

Dr. Hopper smiled. It wasn’t the first time Captain Gold had spoken his son’s name in his office, but it was the first time he’d spoken in more than passing. He waited, thinking perhaps his patient would continue, but the Captain was quiet. “So,” he began again. “Your wife?”

Rubbing a hand across his mouth, Rummond sighed into his palm, and sat back against the sofa arm. “Ex-wife, if you’d like to update your files,” he groused. “She… is an angry woman. She has every right to be.”

“And you believe her anger has to do with you.”

Captain Gold huffed. “I _know_ it does.”

“Do you have any thoughts as to why that is?” the doctor asked.

“It turned out that I wasn’t what she expected. She thought she was getting a proper husband. A brave sailor. A man…” Milah had been proud of being married to a sailor, and even happier when he became a fighter pilot. But when she was no longer a pilot’s wife, that pride had warped into resentment and outright hate in record time. “Turned out, she’d gotten herself a lame duck. In more ways than one.”

Without glancing down, Dr. Hopper scribbled a brief note about doing more future work with his patient’s view of himself . “Could you talk a bit about how you met her? Are you comfortable with that?”

It was a nice memory, and one Rummond hadn’t dwelled upon in some time for that very reason. “Her father was an engineer involved with the firm building Rosyth Dockyard. I’d gone out to have a look at the site while I was on liberty. She’d come ‘round with her father to look in on things. She didn’t care about the dockyard; it was the outing she wanted. I remember her purple frock. She had this enormous hat,” he said, reaching up to gesture to the width of the brim with a short sweep of his hand, “with silk flowers and a great white feather. She was a sight to behold. I had to work up the nerve to talk to her. Ended up saying something idiotic about the cranes, and she laughed. Milah was the first woman I’d ever felt a- a _pull_ to? That sort of feeling for?”

Dr. Hopper stopped writing and looked up. “The first?”

Rummond nodded, shrugging one shoulder. “I’d never felt that want for seeing someone. Not in that way.” He frowned again. “That’s bad? That’s a bad thing?”

“No, no, that isn’t- I was only curious.” The doctor smiled in the way he did when he was trying to be comforting. “You weren’t a ‘girl in every port’ type of sailor, then?”

“Me? No. I don’t-” Captain Gold appeared a cross between surprised and amused at the question. “I never felt the need for something like that, a girl every time I got off the boat. I was always busy enough.”

“No girlfriends? When you were young?”

Captain Gold squirmed a bit, growing rather obviously uncomfortable. “One. Once.”

“Would you tell me about that?” Dr. Hopper urged him.

Rummond took a deep breath and blew it out at length. Now there was an incident he hadn’t thought about in a while. Dredging it up hurt just as much as it used to, he found. 

“I thought a girl had a fondness for me,” he began, his voice quiet. “We went around together a bit. She was quite forward, and I enjoyed it. I was under the illusion that we were courting, and she didn’t see it that way. She laughed when I proposed to her. She’d been, ah… She’d been using me to get herself near one of my flag officers.” He’d been nothing more than a means to an end. It had taken him a very long time to get past that. He understood then that _anyone_ could be heartless.

“How old were you then?”

“Twenty. No,” he shook his head, thinking for a moment that he was mistaken. “No, that’s right. Twenty, when I met her.”

Dr. Hopper did his best to hide his disbelief. “And you never had another girlfriend until you were… mid-thirties?”

Rummond fidgeted, finger and thumb rolling together. Before he learned to keep quiet and deflect the questions and ribbing that sailors engaged in amongst themselves regarding women, before he got his wings, he had been through this with shipmates. The teasing, the ridicule. 

“Thirty-four,” he murmured, looking away from the doctor as his face heated. Milah had been his first and only. He’d bought a house for them after she accepted his proposal, which had felt like a miracle in itself. It had been easily afforded, though. For most of his career, he’d spent his pay on little more than food, uniforms, and necessities. He had no one to send money home to. It was the savings of his military pay that his father had managed to freeze in his accounts. “We married the next year. Neal was born in ’13. He was barely a year old when the war started.”

“You waited three years to have a child? What made you wait?”

“It wasn’t a purposeful waiting.” Oh, the doctor was digging into every sore spot he could find, then, wasn’t he. Some of the most painful arguments he and Milah had were over a baby, or a lack thereof. She had been somehow certain that he was sterile. The fighting led to less time spent together, which led to less chance of starting a child at all. He had begun to wonder, himself, until she finally turned up expecting. “It simply took a while to happen.”

The doctor nodded. “It must have been very difficult, leaving your family when the war began. Particularly with a child so young.”

Rummond glanced to the doctor, but wound up looking mostly at the paraphernalia on the man’s desk. It had near killed him. He’d missed his son almost as terribly then as he did now. “It was my duty.”

“Did you manage to obtain permission for leave at all?” Dr. Hopper asked, knowing well how difficult it was to do so during wartime.

“Twice. It was a fight for near anyone to get leave. Neal didn’t recognize me the first time.” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. It had broken his heart, his son crying and struggling to get away when he’d tried to hold him. “He knew me the second time. Ran to me when he saw me coming up the walk.” Rummond had dropped everything and knelt down to give his son a place to land. He could still feel the rough little collision of a three-year-old’s weight into his chest and arms around his neck, if he concentrated.

“And how was your wife, at that point?”

“Fine, as far as I could tell. She seemed happy to see me, when I came home.” She’d run down the front walk to him, as well. They’d had intimacies each time. Everything had felt the same, during his leaves. “It didn’t go bad until later.”

Dr. Hopper waited for a moment to see if Captain Gold would get further into what ‘bad’ meant. When there was only silence again, he asked gently, “Until you went home for good?”

“Until the trial was over,” Rummond said quietly. “I wasn’t allowed home between being shipped back and standing trial. She knew, though. War gossip travels fast. She knew a few days after I was retrieved. I wrote her from the field hospital, and she never responded. I thought perhaps my letters were lost, but…” He shrugged, frowning down at his hands. She hadn’t come to the trial, either. At the time he’d been stupid enough to be relieved by that, glad for neither she nor his boy to witness proof of his cowardice firsthand, not knowing what her absence meant.

“And when you did get home, things were different.”

Captain Gold gave a choked laugh, and Dr. Hopper knew he’d hit something.

“I didn’t send word I was coming home. The trial ended faster than I’d expected.” The crown liked its treason trials tied up as quickly as possible, and with his father’s interference, he’d been released early on the second day of it. He’d have been home before the message. “There was a man there when I arrived, just leaving.”

Dr. Hopper’s stomach sunk. _Oh_. “Would this happen to be the-” His pen tilted toward the door.

“One and the same.” Captain Gold was near the point of seething. He might not hold it against his wife, but the man who had come onto the ward to harass him appeared to be another story entirely. “Tipped his hat and _smiled_. Welcomed me home,” the Captain said, his voice dropped low, but his expression dissolved into sadness once more.

Rummond ducked his head, remembering how defeated he’d felt when he’d gone inside. Despite knowing in his heart what was happening, he’d allowed himself to hope, just for a few more seconds, that it was perfectly innocent. A salesman. A friend.

“Milah was- she was tying up her dressing gown when I found her,” he said haltingly. He wouldn’t say more - he didn’t know if he _could_ say it to another person - but it had been painfully obvious, what he’d very nearly walked in on. “Neal was in his nursery. Locked in. But he was playing just as happily… He didn’t know a thing going on.”

“And the two of you weren’t able to reconcile after that?” Dr Hopper asked, wondering if the end had occurred so sharply, or whether they had managed anything at all.

Captain Gold seemed to shrink into the sofa. “I would have,” he said. “I tried.”

“But she didn’t wish to?”

“She wanted something different. Something that no longer included me.” He dropped the screwdriver over on its tool case and picked up another. “It isn’t as if I can blame her. She married a serviceman, and she had every right to expect that to continue.”

In Dr. Hopper’s experience, when a patient’s wife grew emotionally distant or altogether left, there was a great deal of blame applied. For one to be so resigned and sympathetic toward her in the face of it… On one hand, he was curious as to how his patient’s emotions tilted in so easily forgiving a way. On the other, a healthy dose of anger toward her in such a situation might have done Captain Gold some good. “Did you never discuss what happened when you arrived home? Or the changes in her? Anything?”

Rummond shook his head. “I never brought it up, the way I found her. She continued at home, and I had to search for work. No one was hiring.” No one was hiring _him_ , and Milah had known it. That had set off more than one rage in his direction. The corners of his mouth turned down as he closed his eyes, and he could still see her bared teeth and cold eyes, where once they had been warm looking on him. “But people didn’t look at her the same, either. It wasn’t only myself I’d ruined. The other war wives, the women she’d become friends with, they turned their backs on her or ‘forgot’ to extend invitations to social gatherings. Our credit was cut off everywhere. It was no wonder she hated me.”

“‘Hate’ is a strong assumption, Captain,” the doctor said.

“She wished me dead.” Rummond laughed, the sound short and strangled, before he wilted into hurt again. He looked down at the screwdriver in his hands, running his fingers over the engraved grip lines in the handle. “She believed it would have been better for her and our son if I’d just died. Told me nearly word for word. If I’d died, she’d’ve been getting a lifelong widow’s pension, been respected and cared for by other military families. No, I believe ‘hate’ is quite accurate.” It was Milah’s voice alongside his father’s in his head, both of them letting him know just what a waste of good air he was.

Dr. Hopper had done his best not to wince as Captain Gold spoke about finding his wife in such a compromising position, and her subsequent actions. It wasn’t terribly unusual for wives - for entire families - to grow distant after the events leading to a serviceman being diagnosed with shell shock. But to carry on with blatant adultery and inflict such hate _was_. He began to wonder just how much affection of any sort his patient had experienced at length during his life. Captain Gold’s wife - _ex_ -wife - seemed to be the likeliest of providers, at least during the early years of the relationship, but a sour ending to the marriage could destroy even the sweetest memories of love.

“Can you talk about what happened to make things come to a head?”

Rummond shuddered, mostly from cold. His hair was still damp underneath. It felt as if the rain had worked its way into his bones, and all he wanted was to get back to his bunk. “Nothing,” he said with a shake of his head. “Perhaps everything. I don’t know.”

“There was no argument, no incident toward the end?” the doctor asked.

“There was silence,” Rummond said, remembering the tension in the house and her unwillingness to breathe a single word to him most days. “I stayed out of her way as much as I could. She went out evenings; I didn’t ask where or why. The day she left, she’d been out since early afternoon. Neal was napping, and I asked the widow next door to stay with him while I went to fetch something to cook for our supper. She was one of few who’d give me the time of day.” He shifted in his seat, wishing he had his robe to cover him.

“How long had you been back, by this time?”

“Less than a month. Just shy. Neal and I were getting to know one another again.” A small twitch of a smile quirked at the corner of his mouth before disappearing. His wee Neal had only just grown attached to him again. He hadn’t even gotten to see his boy one last time. “When I got back, they were gone. No note. Milah came back on a man’s arm to take Neal, Widow Abegail told me. They’d threatened her out of the house. Milah’s belongings were taken from the bedroom.” He’d spent the night and the next day on the floor of his son’s room. Rummond lifted a hand, rubbing the heel of it against the ache beneath his breastbone.

Dr. Hopper frowned in empathy with his patient. He had no children of his own - likely wouldn’t - but to have one taken so? It wasn’t death, but he couldn’t imagine the feeling of it being far removed.

He gave Captain Gold a pause before continuing. “You moved into a tenement, at some point?”

Rummond cleared his throat over the lump grown in it. “The next week.” He nodded. “Nearby as I could find one.” He couldn’t stand being in the place where they’d all lived together, but he couldn’t get rid of it, either.

“Could you not have moved into a boarding house? Something nicer?” the doctor asked. He couldn’t imagine moving into a tenement unless there were no other choice.

“I could have,” Captain Gold said. He’d had the money, at the time. “I didn’t want to.”

“What did a tenement have that a boarding house didn’t?”

He muttered the admission, “Squalor.”

Dr. Hopper shook his head, not sure that he understood. “What manner of benefit was such squalor to your situation?”

Captain Gold pulled at a stray thread in the weave of his gown. “It’s what I deserved.”

“You took safety and comfort away from yourself, because you felt that you didn’t deserve them?”

Rummond only nodded in response to the doctor’s question. It was difficult to get across, and he wasn’t sure he understood, himself, but punishment was the best explanation he could find. 

“You haven’t seen him since they took him?” The doctor considered, wondering if having his son back might help his recovery. Even a little might give him a foothold. “You know, Captain Gold, custody-”

“I’ve had that part of this conversation,” Rummond told him shortly, unwilling to repeat it.

Dr. Hopper closed his mouth with a small nod. The appointment was nearing its end; upsetting his patient before sending him back to the ward would be helpful to no one. He finished filling in his notes a bit, allowing Captain Gold to watch out the window for a while before interrupting again. He seemed to enjoy seeing the birds, when one or two deigned to light on branches within view. It wouldn’t be too long now before they began disappearing, migrating away in autumn. Lack of sunlight and lack of fresh food, atop so much else, winter was rather a hard time for many of his patients. He wondered how the Captain would fare.

“Can you tell me how you’ve been feeling in general, over the course of these last few days?” Dr. Hopper asked after a while.

Rummond was quiet for a bit longer, but eventually spoke, coming up with simply, “Sad. Hurt.” His brow drew, and he added, “Lonely.”

Lonely was not a new feeling, by far. But it had increased by leaps and bounds lately, and the sadness had grown, as well. It was a different kind of sadness than usually weighed on him, _heavy_ in him, almost dizzy with it, and he wasn’t sure what it was.

Dr. Hopper quietly closed the Captain’s file, sitting back. It was a good development for his patient to offer what he felt even that concisely. “Do you think those are because of the divorce coming about?

Rummond thought of the way he’d heard Nurse French and the orderly talking, but he couldn’t remark on that to the doctor. “The divorce. For the most part.”

“How is your concentration doing? Have you felt improvement?”

“It depends on the day,” he said. “Comes and goes. Lately… I haven’t been able to do anything demanding concentration for more than a week.”

“Inability to concentrate can be a symptom of shell shock, as well as depression,” Dr. Hopper began, deciding that now was the moment. He’d intended to tell his patient during the previous week’s appointments, but Captain Gold had been so beside himself during each session that it didn’t seem fair to add another thing to the pile. But seeing as his patient was reasonably calm here and now, this was a good chance.

“Mm. Nurse French has made the observation.”

“There is another possibility that could be at fault, or could be exacerbating your problems with it. I think you might have suffered a concussion when the anti-tank mine went off,” Dr. Hopper ventured, and watched for his patient’s reaction.

Captain Gold gave him a doubtful look. “I didn’t hit my head. Other parts, but not my head.”

“A concussion _can_ occur when someone is near an explosion, whether there’s a strike to the head or not. You said it was powerful enough to knock you all to the ground. Such force can cause a person’s brain to collide with their skull,” the doctor explained. “It could have caused the slow feeling you had, the reactions to light and sound, the immediate effect on your hearing.”

Rummond’s mouth thinned as he tried to consider it. “That’s been more than a year ago. Concussions heal, I know that much.”

“Depending on severity, problems can linger for years, Captain.” His patient was quiet again, looking at him with so much skepticism that Dr. Hopper could feel it radiating.

“You’re sure about this?”

Dr. Hopper nodded a bit hesitantly, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “Reasonably sure, given what you’ve told me about your symptoms in the time immediately after the mine exploded.”

“But you can’t be positive,” Captain Gold pushed.

“Well… No,” Dr. Hopper admitted. “Not absolutely. Not since it has healed by now. But the signs-”

“Freezing up. Flinching. Some of those signs could just as well point to cowardice.”

The doctor didn’t catch a sigh before it left him. “Captain, what you’ve been calling cowardice-”

“I don’t need _excuses_ , doctor. I need to get over this, whatever it is you want to call it. You’re the professional. You’re meant to cure it.” The Captain looked at him in that moment as if it could be treated as handily as a bullet wound.

Dr. Hopper had a need to tell Captain Gold that he couldn’t _cure_ shell shock, and that he couldn’t help him alone; that patients had to help themselves through alongside. But it didn’t seem a wise thing to get into just now. “Give me time,” he said.

Humbert escorted Rummond on his way back to the ward. He was grateful that the orderly wasn’t a chatterbox - it saved the effort and energy that ignoring him would have taken.

When they turned onto the corridor leading through the lobby, there by the nurse’s station stood an immaculately dressed, dark-haired man. Until they got nearer, he couldn’t see Nurse French standing on the other side - testament to the man’s size. He was more than a foot taller than Nurse French, dwarfing her. 

“I can’t just leave. Not for an hour in the middle of the morning,” the nurse said.

“I’ve come all the way across town to take you out to brunch, and you don’t _want_ to?” the man asked, as if he couldn’t imagine such a thing. He wasn’t speaking harshly, but the words clearly were not sitting well with Nurse French.

“I’m sorry, Donat. If you’d given me some warning, I might have been able to make arrangements, but I can’t up and leave right now,” she explained. “I have responsibilities.”

That was her fiancé? Rummond assumed, judging by the familiar exchange. To be her fiancé, there didn’t seem much softness between them.

“Have you considered that it might be time to begin cutting your hours?” the man asked, and though it took the guise of a question, it sounded very much like a strong suggestion. “Your father says you leave early, and I know you leave late, because you’re late to dinner most evenings. You’ve taken on two 24-hour shifts a week, Belle, for Heaven’s sake! You’ll have the responsibilities of a wife soon, and those of a mother soon after that. Perhaps you should begin embracing them _now_ , so that they won’t come as such a shock.”

Nurse French gaped at him. Before she could answer, he continued, reaching to take her hands in his. “I realize how you enjoy your work, dear, but there will be more to your life than a ward full of men who could just as well live in a sanitarium.”

The endearment the man used sounded hollow and forced, to Rummond’s ears. He tried to slow down, once they were past, to hear more. He caught Nurse French tugging her hands away, but Humbert guided him on. They were too far away by the time Nurse French responded, and he could only hear the rhythm of her voice, but she didn’t sound at all agreeable to her fiancé’s ideas.

He had only just gotten situated beneath his blankets and made his spot warm when Nurse French walked onto the ward, herself. She didn’t seem upset, really, but neither did she seem particularly happy after her visitor.

In spite of his feelings regarding the morning, Rummond was relieved when she came back to sit on the edge of his bunk for a few minutes between handing out morning medication and making her rounds for the men in need of wound care. 

_Her_ chattering, he couldn’t mind. She asked whether his hand hurt, if he had managed any more pages of his book, and told him that Lieutenant Tillman was scheduled to be transferred later in the week. She talked - mostly at him, as he hadn’t the energy to respond often - for a good while before Nurse Boyd declared that she was being blamed for Jezek’s eyeglasses going missing, and Nurse French had to go.

Her fiancé worked quickly, it appeared. Later in the afternoon, before lunch came around, a small, portly man in a house servant’s getup came in with a great bouquet of blue lilies filling his arms. He waited without drawing attention, until her attention found him. Rummond watched as she went over, but no amount of straining to hear this conversation helped, with the midday noise of the ward. The encounter didn’t drag on for very long, though. The man shook his head twice, each time holding the bouquet out to her. Finally, she took it, looking decidedly unimpressed, and waited until the portly little man left before stepping out. 

She took the flowers away and came back without them.


	24. Looking at the Ground

In hindsight, his great mistake had been in thinking the day would turn out as slow and quiet as the previous two, and not mentally preparing himself for one of _those_ days on the ward. Rummond had managed to calm himself enough today that his every nerve wasn’t on end, but Corporal Knight had things of his own to worry over. Most often a quiet and easy patient, Knight was in the middle of his first truly hard day since admitting himself. 

‘Auditory hallucinations,’ he’d heard Nurse Lucas call what was plaguing the Corporal when she explained to Nurse Halloran that, no, plugging his ears would not help. Corporal Knight had been hearing mortar fire in the late summer storm since it began mid-morning, and panicked afresh with every roll of thunder. He yelled out to be heard over what he was hearing, shaking what bit of calm anyone who was holding onto some had.

After overhearing that a doctor and orderlies from the sanitarium Tillman’s mother chose were coming in to fetch the Lieutenant away today, Rummond decided that it was not a morning he could handle being on the ward. He waited until the necessary backs were turned, nurses distracted, and he slipped out.

Belle was busy with gathering the rest of Tillman’s belongings, packing them back into the suitcase he’d arrived with so that his mother could take them, while Graham took him to get him back into his clothes. He would have all the dignity they could give him, knowing that there would be a shortage of it where he would be going. She’d missed Captain Gold sneaking out the same as everyone else had. 

Though she noticed the empty bed rather quickly, she couldn’t go looking for him until Lieutenant Tillman was picked up. Belle stood by, watching with a lump in her throat as Tillman’s mother petted the hair and kissed the cheek of a son who no longer knew her. It had stopped raining by the time the older woman took Tillman’s hand to clasp tightly in her own, held close to her bosom as she walked him out to the sanitarium’s small ambulance. Graham followed with the Lieutenant’s belongings.

As she walked the corridors toward the north wing, Belle thought she hated Dr. Whale a bit. She felt badly for entertaining the feeling; he was a perfectly nice man. He was good to Ruby. He had never been unkind to her, nor to any of the servicemen, in general. But _this treatment_. Just now, she would have liked to feed that machine to Dr. Whale backward.

She found her arms crossed over her middle and her footsteps heavy, and she had to consciously make herself quieter. Approaching the supply closet, Belle hoped he would be in his usual place. She didn’t think she had it in her to perform a frantic search today.

Opening the door, she stepped half inside, asking, “Captain?”

“Here,” he said from the back of the room, quiet and muffled. She heard sounds of movement.

Belle closed the door behind her, in no hurry to herd him back to his bed. She could use some quiet, herself. When she went around the middle shelves, he was sitting up, but the pillow next to him still held an indentation. “The ward became too much? Corporal Knight has calmed, since the storm passed.”

“It wasn’t Knight,” Rummond said quietly, tucking his left leg under him. “Not wholly.”

Nurse French only hesitated for a moment before sitting next to him on the blanket, leaving a space large enough that another of her could have sat between. “Lieutenant Tillman?” she asked.

“I don’t want to watch. He has no idea what’s happening to him or where he’s going.” He shook his head. “I can’t say I liked him particularly, especially after- well. But it seems too cruel. Taking his mind and locking him away.”

“I know it seems that way,” Belle agreed. She pulled her skirt and apron fastidiously straight over her stretched legs, and crossed one ankle over the other. “But we can’t care for him here. Not continuing to take care of him at the level he’s going to require for…” She drifted away from the end of her sentence. It was what Nurse Mills had said over and over, each time this happened, and Belle’s stomach turned to hear it come from her own mouth.

“The rest of his life?” Rummond supplied. It didn’t look like the kind of thing one healed from, what had been done to Tillman.

“Likely so.” She frowned.

He fiddled with a loose thread in the blanket beside his leg. “You’re here, then he’s already gone?”

“He’s just left. His mother came in to go along, to settle him in.” Nurse French sighed, obviously also unhappy with the situation. “As if there’s any ‘settled in’ to those facilities.”

“But he’s in a decent place?” Captain Gold asked.

She nodded. “One of the best around. A sanitarium specifically for servicemen.” Two of the nurses she had worked alongside in the VAD went to work there when they came home. It wasn’t a terrible place. There were complaints, but then, there were complaints about any hospital, she rationalized to herself.

“So a bit better than your average madhouse, though not by much,” Rummond said. He wasn’t sure he believed it.

“Your new footlocker arrived,” Belle told him, trying a gentle change of subject. “We can change your things over, when you’re ready to go back.”

His brow creased, but he didn’t look up at her. “You didn’t have to do that. There’s nothing in there worth being under lock and key.”

“Nonsense. Your belongings should be in a safe place. They deserve safety, the same as everyone else’s.” 

“I suppose.” He shrugged a shoulder, but fell quiet.

“Captain Gold,” Belle began, broaching something she’d been thinking about far too much. “Would you like to talk? About anything?” 

She’d sat with him through quite a few meals, and they’d chatted a very small amount about easy things, but he hadn’t said anything of substance to her since she had re-bandaged his hand the day he had to be dragged in out of the rain. Belle hoped that he was talking to Dr. Hopper, but she wondered and worried what might be going on in his thoughts in the wake of the divorce and the meaning of it being dropped on him.

“You can talk all you like,” he said, casting a half grin and a raised eyebrow over at her.

“Oh- I-” She floundered a bit. She hadn’t meant for the topic of conversation to be left up to _her_. “I could tell you about people on the ward again?” she offered, for lack of anything else coming immediately to mind.

That seemed to interest him. He turned toward her a little, asking, “Have you learned anything more about Booth?”

“No, not yet. He’s still very private about whatever it is that happened to him.” She was curious about it, herself, but it wasn’t something that could be pushed for.

Rummond remembered the girl who came by in a fluster when Nurse French sat with him. He’d been irritated with her at the time. “That Nurse Boyd. She was accused of stealing someone’s glasses?” 

“Oh, she’s accused of stealing anything that goes missing!” Belle laughed. “The nurses try to cover for her and retrieve things. And she isn’t a bad nurse, really, but _my goodness_ , she has sticky fingers.”

“Does she steal out of need, or…?” He had seen a boy or two in his Navy time who had such a habit. Neither had been in dire straits, money-wise. He wasn’t certain why they did it, and they hadn’t been able to explain, but when he caught one at it, he’d made sure the item went back where it belonged.

Nurse French shook her head. “No, no. She receives her husband’s pay, as well as her own. She’ll deny it up and down, but things still turn up in her pockets.”

He smiled. Yes, that was familiar. “I’ll make sure to keep an eye on my own things.”

Nurse French returned his smile. “That would be a wise idea.”

“You said she receives her husband’s pay. Is he- Do you mean his pension?” he asked carefully. Right now, sitting here with her, he didn’t want to talk about death.

“Oh, he’s missing in action. He disappeared in Prussia a little over… three years ago now,” she clarified. “She isn’t very fond of the job. It isn’t a calling for her. She’d just had her daughter when she got word that her husband was missing, and she’d meant to quit when the little one came along, but it didn’t turn out that way. She keeps saying that she’ll quit when he comes back.”

It was about as likely that Nurse Boyd’s husband would be found as the chances his ex-wife would have second thoughts about divorcing him, but the look on Nurse French’s face said she was well aware of that. “The bombardier a bed back from mine, he talks about a Nurse Novak. I overhear,” he confessed, his smile turning sheepish. “I’ve never seen her around.”

“She’s his sweetheart.” Nurse French grinned, but it wavered. “As far as I know, they haven’t been able to see one another for a long while.”

“Something happened between them?” he asked, his attention focusing more strongly on her.

Belle took a breath. Astrid’s was another sad story that had yet to find a happy ending. “Some _one_.”

A grimace crossed Captain Gold’s face. “That someone wouldn’t happen to be Nurse Mills?”

“No. Well, not solely. Nurse Novak was raised in that sorry excuse for an orphanage run by Gormlaith Fowler. Have you heard the name?” Belle asked, and he shook his head. 

“She’s quite well-known in the area for the constant stream of orphaned little girls who move through her house. They go in children and become conveniently ready for hard work soon after.” Belle worried at her lip. There was tale after tale of girls spit out by that ‘orphanage.’ “Nurse Novak decided she wanted to be a nurse, rather than continuing on in the clothing factory where most of her foster sisters end up. Ms. Fowler didn’t approve, but she stopped kicking up a fuss when she found that the pay was better.”

“What did the pay have to do with Ms. Fowler?” Captain Gold asked, shaking his head a little.

“The girls still living in her house, they’re required to hand over nearly every penny of their pay to her. For ‘upkeep.’” Belle gave him a look showing that she believed something very suspicious about that. “Anyway, Bombardier Jezek had been on the ward for a few weeks when Astrid - oh, that’s Nurse Novak - began working here. She’s the sweetest girl, absolutely lovely, but she’s a bit flighty. She lost her roster the very first day, not an hour after briefing, and Jezek found it next to his bed.”

Rummond blew a short breath through his nose. He could see where this was going. “Love at first sight, I suppose.”

“I’m not sure about love, right from the beginning, but there was definitely something.” Belle smiled at his skepticism. “They got along right away, and they began spending time together. Ms. Fowler found out and demanded that Astrid be transferred to another ward. Lo and behold, it turned out Ms. Fowler had requested weekly reports from Nurse Mills on Astrid’s behavior.” Her smile drifted, and she leaned against the shelf behind her. “I believe she’s trying to get herself transferred back, but being under the thumbs of Ms. Fowler and Nurse Mills, too…”

Rummond watched her, how this Nurse Novak’s separation from her apparent intended affected Nurse French. She seemed to sympathize with everyone. “Sticks her nose in everywhere, doesn’t she? Nurse Mills.”

“She does, at that.” Belle couldn’t help hoping that someday the mean old thing would stick her nose in a place where it would get bitten. 

She looked down at his hand where it rested on his leg nearer her. His fingers fidgeted, but slowly. She could see the tendons in the back of his hand move ever so slightly as he did, and she wondered what they would feel like beneath her fingertips.

“What about your friend? The tall one, red lipstick.” He couldn’t bring her name to mind. Looking away, he frowned at himself. He was excellent with names. Never had to be introduced to someone twice, him. How could he forget a name he’d known since his first week here? It was her grandmother who’d brought the men cookies. Beverly. Beverly… He snapped his fingers as the name surfaced. “Nurse Lucas.”

“Ruby.” Belle nodded. “She became a nurse because it’s just what the women in her family do. Her Granny was a nurse, her mother was a nurse for a little while before Ruby came along. Some things happened there-” She waved her hand as if scattering the thought. Ruby’s mother was not someone who needed to be discussed. Ruby wouldn’t like it, for one thing. She looked to the Captain, her smile returning as she decided to tell him the hospital’s worst-kept ‘secret.’ “She and Dr. Whale are… Well, not so much courting, as…” Belle stopped, searching for a way to explain without having to get into the particulars.

Rummond snorted softly and offered, “Having encounters?”

“That’s a delicate way to describe it.” Belle grinned. “They’ve been carrying on for more than three years now, and they fit together _so_ well. I don’t know if it’s a case of opposites attracting, or the similarities in them-” She shook her head. She could wonder for hours how the two of them connected upon crossing paths. “They had a bumpy patch, but they seem to be back on track, and they’re so happy!”

Rummond watched the expressions cross Nurse French’s face as she talked about her friend. Listening to these stories wasn’t as much about the content of them as it was the talking, itself. Before admitting himself to Firefly Hill, he couldn’t have pointed out the last time he had a conversation about something that wasn’t related to the war. _Everyone_ asked questions about the war, and everyone thought they were the very first to ask them. Having a conversation about the people around him, small as his contributions were, was wonderful. The company had a great deal to do with that, he was aware. As she went on about Nurse Lucas’ torrid and protracted affair, he was content to sit and listen to her voice. 

Nurse French was too close to him, and she wasn’t close enough, and he shouldn’t have been thinking at all about how close she was or wasn’t, or how comfortable and unpressured this felt. She had a fiancé. He repeated to himself that she was his nurse. He was her patient. _That was all_. She did sympathize with everyone around her, after all. But she was so close that he could feel her breath and smell the too-sweetness of strawberry candy on it when she turned her head in speaking, and he didn’t understand the aching _want_ he felt for her, especially amid all the other worries he had taking up his thoughts.

“I figure he’s close to finally giving her a ring, though. I expect to hear squeals across the countryside any evening now,” Nurse French laughed.

“He’ll propose eventually,” Rummond said, allowing himself to indulge in enjoying the sound of her laugh. “If he doesn’t want to lose her, he’ll propose.”

Belle nodded, a smile lingering on her face. There was silence for a while, and it was peaceful, rather than awkward. Her anger and hurt about the situation with Lieutenant Tillman was smoothed over a little by the quiet and the distance created by getting to talk about something else for a while. 

She pulled a peppermint from her apron pocket and offered it to Captain Gold. When he shook his head to decline, she opened it and popped it into her own mouth. It took another minute of deliberation before she spoke what was on her mind. “You asked me, once, if I always wanted to be a nurse.”

“I did. You didn’t answer,” he remembered. “You evaded quite deftly.”

Belle pulled the center of her lower lip into her mouth and chewed at it again for a moment before saying very quietly, “I never wanted to be a nurse.”

She glanced over at Captain Gold to find his head tilted, his brows drawn together in question.

With a wishful, wistful smile, she admitted, “I wanted to be a doctor. I enjoy being a nurse; I love what I do, helping people. But it isn’t what I _wanted_ to do.”

“Then why aren’t you?” he asked. “There are women doctors. A good number of them, now.”

“I did look into medical colleges. I thought I would go, once the war was over. So much of what we did in the VAD, we were taking up slack for the dearth of available doctors. I _knew_ I could do it,” Belle said, slapping her leg in determination as well as ire. There was a sad turn to her mouth when she looked over at Captain Gold. “My father and Donat think it ‘unwise’ at this point. I’ll be marrying soon, and will have other responsibilities. I’ll be lucky to get to remain a _nurse_.” She hated that she sounded as if she were mimicking the very things they told her.

Rummond stared at her, fighting to keep a look of fear off his face at the prospect of her leaving entirely. He hadn’t thought he was getting so attached to her. “When are you set to marry?”

“January. Tenth of January,” she sighed. She should feel excited about it all, but she couldn’t manage to from beneath the weight of dread. “I don’t understand how it bothers them so much that I want something more. ”

He could see her completely at home in an operating theatre, as fine and steady as her hands were, as perfect as the stitches in _his_ hand were. How could anyone know her and discourage her from it? 

“It’s my dearest wish, though,” she continued, a smile blooming across her face again as she moved away from talking about those who would stop her. “I read all the medical texts I can get my hands on, the very newest research and discoveries and information-”

“Is that what that thing is that you read during night shifts? That book that could stop a bullet cold?” he teased.

“It is!” Belle laughed, pleased that he found himself able to tease. “There’s a place in London. London School of Medicine for Women. I know I could make it in medical college. I _know_ I could.”

“You should do it,” Rummond told her, smiling at the sparkle that returned to her eyes as she talked about it.

For just a moment, she entertained the idea of pulling away from her father and fiancé, enrolling in the school and making a name for herself. But that just wasn’t practical. “Women doctors have a hard time of it. Difficulty gaining and keeping patients, and it’s practically impossible to find a position in a hospital.”

“Then hang your own shingle, if you must. If anyone is suited to it, I would think you are,” he said, doing his best to encourage without seeming as overly enthusiastic as he felt for her. “Women will gain a foothold in medicine. Mark my words.”

She grinned over at him. So few men had she heard talk in such a way - as if they _wanted_ a woman in a male-saturated field of work. “There will be a female flying ace someday, too,” she said, wondering what he might say to that idea. “Just you wait and see.”

Captain Gold shook his head, smiling the toothiest smile she’d yet seen from him in his months on the ward, though few smiles as he gave anyone, it was easily done. “I have no doubt about it. And she’ll likely set records to leave every single one of her predecessors coughing in the dust.”

Belle’s eyes stung a little. It wouldn’t have taken much of a push for her to cry with joy at the way his words hit her, and her cheeks hurt with the width of her smile.

Despite her peppermint, her stomach gave the early grumblings of hunger. She reached up to check her watch. “Are you ready to go back, Captain Gold?” she asked, as much as she hated to cut short their conversation. Lunch would be coming around soon, but she didn’t dare mention it, or he might well stay socked back in the supply room until lights out.

He sighed, immediately missing the mood they had fallen into. “If I must.”

She smiled, understanding his reluctance. “They _would_ miss us eventually.”

“Nurse French,” he began as she knelt up to rise, and she sat on her heels at his interruption. “Could you… Call me by my name? Would that be inappropriate?” He fretted with the cuff of his robe as he asked. He liked the way she called him ‘Captain Gold’ with no tone of irony to it, but the formality of it felt more and more artificial. And if he were being perfectly honest, he wanted to hear her speak his name.

“I can do that.” She nodded. “But then I think perhaps you should begin calling me ‘Belle,’ hmm?”

The thought of calling her by her given name in return made his ears warm. “I believe I can swing that deal.”

“Back to the ward, then?” she asked again after a moment.

“It’s as good a time as any,” he agreed.

Belle stood and, out of habit, she offered her hand. She was just about to take it back when he lifted his own and placed it in hers.

She stayed still - perhaps a bit out of the surprise of it, but a bit to brace for his weight, too. He pulled on her very little, though, his hand in hers a cursory thing as he pushed to his feet with his other hand against his knee. She looked up at him when he was standing, and he looked down at their hands before he met her eyes. She tightened her fingers around his and smiled at him before he let go.


	25. Promises, Promises

“How is Donat?” Ruby asked. Even had Belle not looked up to see her friend’s sidelong look and smirk, the suggestion lacing her question was evident.

Ruby had a napkin covering one hand and a salmon and dill pinwheel off it in the other. When she’d hurried off without breakfast, her grandmother had brought a basket up with enough sandwiches to feed all the nurses on the wing. After their ravening descension upon Granny’s food, she’d taken up following on Belle’s off-ward tasks.

“Donat is just fine,” Belle told her with a curt nod.

“You’ve hardly talked about him since the party.” Ruby eyed her curiously at her response. She didn’t wait for any of Belle’s bush-beating before she asked point blank, “Why?”

“We’re having a bit of an extended tiff.” It wasn’t quite the truth, but Belle wasn’t precisely sure what the truth _was_. 

As understanding as Donat had been upon sending her back to the hospital the night of the engagement party, he’d greeted her with thinly concealed irritation when she arrived home on Monday evening. He seemed angry, and she was frustrated with his behavior, but there wasn’t exactly a _squabble_ between them. It was more the two of them playing tug of war with an impasse.

“What the Devil over?” Ruby asked around a bite of sandwich, holding the back of her hand up in front of her mouth as she followed Belle into the supply closet.

It was easiest to tell Ruby what she could interpret as a recent, solid point of contention. “He expected me home the night of the party, because I left early and in my party dress.”

“Did you explain to him what happened? You know, in small words?”

“Ruby.” Belle gave her a mildly scolding look. 

Donat was viewed as brawn-over-brains in local society. He didn’t involve himself in intellectual discussions, refused reading as a ‘waste of time better spent on true self-improvement,’ and spent much of his free time playing football or polo. He’d once dedicated a great deal of said free time to courting, before he settled upon pursuing her. But she knew that Donat was far from stupid. He had a keen look in his eye when her father discussed politics or the state of the lower classes with one of his own contemporaries. She had never seen Donat glaze over with confusion when she prattled about a book or poetry; he simply didn’t care. Belle had known him more than long enough to tell the difference between disinterest and ignorance of something. As a result, she’d often wondered what on earth they would ever talk about for the rest of their lives.

Ruby rolled her eyes. “Did you have a talk about it?”

“Not an extended one, no. He had expectations of the evening and- well, it isn’t the sort of thing he would suffer an extended discussion of.” Belle hoped that Ruby would take what she said at face value and switch topics.

But no, not Ruby. “Expectations?” she pressed, and there, _that_ was a look of confusion.

Belle pulled down the box of suture needles, setting it on the counter in front of her to search out the slenderest size - the ones that she favored, and that none of the other nurses used because they thought the needles were too difficult to control. “He wanted to spend the evening celebrating together.”

“Celebrate? The whole party was a celebration. The champagne, truffles - I nearly made myself sick on that veal. That dessert table was Heaven itself!” She stopped, taking in Belle’s averted eyes and the flush starting in the middle of her cheeks. “Oh, my God, you mean… _Celebrating_.”

“Yes, Ruby,” Belle sighed. 

“But,” Ruby paused, catching a smear of cream cheese from the corner of her mouth with her pinky while she thought, and sucked it from her finger. “The two of you, you’ve… ‘celebrated’ before. Right? I thought I got that impression.”

Belle’s face grew hotter, but they’d gotten into it now. “We have,” she answered not quite under her breath.

Ruby’s already caught interest increased tenfold. She set her napkin of pinwheels on the counter and propped her arms to one side of them so that she had a good view of Belle’s face. A wide grin had spread over her own. “So? Is it good? He looks like it would be _good_.”

“Ruby!” Belle couldn’t help her laugh. It wasn’t something she wanted to laugh about, but Ruby had been dancing around asking about it for months, and she’d purposefully not gotten her friend’s hints. She knew that Ruby thought her too genteel to ask her straight out, but for goodness’ sake, it _was_ nearly 1920. 

“Oh, come on,” Ruby tried to coax her. “I tell you about Victor.”

“The difference lies in that I never _asked_ about Dr. Whale.” Belle shook her head, casting an amused look over. “Besides, that is so very far away from the point.”

“At least tell me when it was?”

Belle took the needle cards she’d selected and placed them at the back of the box. When she turned to set it back on the shelf, Ruby hurried to pick up the napkin of food behind her, ready to follow her out. Her leisurely pace in answering was getting on Ruby’s nerves, she was sure.

“The night he proposed,” she said simply. 

Ruby hummed in her interest. “That’s been a while, then. And you haven’t since?”

“Oh, he asks at every opportunity,” Belle muttered, walking from the supply closet and leaving the door for Ruby to close behind them.

“So you’re in a tiff over ‘to celebrate or not to celebrate.’” Ruby quickened her step to catch up. 

“No. Not exactly.”

“Over what, then?”

Belle shrugged, shaking her head. “Over his desires and decisions holding rank above mine, is what it boils right down to, I suppose. ‘Celebrating’ is just one part of it.”

“Didn’t you enjoy it?” Ruby asked, following her around to the business side of the front desk.

Belle lowered her voice - there was no one coming down either corridor, but sound carried from the lobby. “There wasn’t that much to enjoy.”

“But he’s so nice and broad, and tall.” Ruby frowned, visibly disappointed. “You mean, he was…?”

“Was what?” Belle looked to find Ruby measuring a small space between her thumb and forefinger, and she felt her face warm again. “No, that is not what I mean.”

“ _You_ said there wasn’t much to enjoy!”

“I wasn’t indicating the size of anything!” Belle made an indignant squawk. As if she would cast aspersions for something like that. She shook her head and shrugged again. “It was okay, I suppose.” 

Ruby looked at her doubtfully. “Well, if that isn’t a ringing endorsement.”

“I know enough to know that it’s _meant_ to be enjoyable.”

“And by that, you mean you read it.” Ruby’s frown quickly dissolved, and she grinned.

Belle gave her friend a teasing, much put-upon sigh. “You certainly seem to like it enough to continue.”

“Well, you _wanted_ to do it, right?”

Pulling a bit of a face, Belle took a file from the main cabinet and turned toward the storage room behind her.

“You didn’t?” Ruby asked, right on her heels.

Donat had always had wandering hands and demanding kisses, and it hadn’t been a great surprise to Belle when he made it known to her that he wanted more so immediately after giving her a ring. And giving in didn’t feel like the happy thing it should have been. It felt as if it was expected that she give him something in return for the engagement. But she had been expecting him to begin asking for sex at any time, really. She’d ordered a diaphragm and the preparations for it months before their first intimate encounter happened.

“He expected it,” Belle murmured.

“Horsefeathers!” Ruby sputtered. “Oh, _Belle_.”

Belle walked her fingers along the top edges of the files in the discharge cabinet until she found a space in the alphabetical order, and dropped Tillman’s file in. She didn’t respond to Ruby’s tone, instead going across to the personal effects, rising up onto her toes to reach for Lieutenant Hargreaves’ box. Ruby stepped over and helped to bring it down; it wasn’t a stretch for her.

“Do you not want to at all?” Ruby asked. “Is that it? Or is it just him?”

“It’s- he-” Belle tugged at her lower lip with her teeth. She tried to sort it out as she searched through Jefferson’s belongings for the beaten-up coin he wanted, and made a note on Graham’s register indicating that the item had been removed and by whom. She placed the lid on the box again and took it back to its place. “I have those feelings,” she said quietly.

Ruby shook her head. “No, what I mean is, if you don’t feel like you want _him_ in your bed, is there anyone you _would_ want there?”

Belle stared at her for a few moments, mouth ajar, and went absolutely _warm_ through her belly as an unbidden thought of Captain Gold flicked through her mind. It was startling enough to stop her mid-reach as she tried to tilt the box up onto the shelf.

Ruby simply gave her one of those wide, molar-revealing grins, and reached once again to help her. “Well, well, well. I’m glad there _is_.”

“Oh, shush,” Belle said, turning very pink in the face. She turned and leaned against the counter, her thoughts spinning.

“Here, eat something,” Ruby offered, setting her napkin next to Belle. She pulled a stool over, wrinkling her nose as the legs screeched across the tile, and perched herself on it with a hop. “What I’m getting at - I mean, if you _do_ want to ‘celebrate,’ but you aren’t enjoying it, then maybe you aren’t ‘celebrating’ with the right person.”

Belle took a pinwheel and began pulling tiny bits of bread from the end of the spiral. “We’ve already been together.”

“Oh, you know just as well as I do, that doesn’t mean you have to marry him,” Ruby said, and her tone was perhaps the most no-nonsense Belle had ever heard out of her. Then she spoke more quietly. “You _know_ me, Belle. I have a…” She waved a hand in a circular motion in front of her, not quite getting the word out.

“Reputation?” Belle asked, at her friend’s hesitation.

“And I ended up with one because I refused to be tied down to a man who made me miserable in every other way, despite the two of us having a little bit of fun together.” Ruby took a red-lacquered compact mirror from her apron pocket and fiddled with it. “I’m not an idiot. People don’t realize they aren’t _always_ behind my back when they call me a slut.”

Belle frowned. She adored Ruby, and as far as friends went, Ruby was second only to Graham. But being known by that kind of reputation wasn’t something that Belle wanted. It wasn’t fair that Ruby had it, either.

“Ruby, that is not comforting,” she said. She put the rest of the sandwich into her mouth, dusting her hands on her skirt before she leaned with her hands curled over the edge of the countertop.

“But I wouldn’t change it, because it wasn’t until I had to transfer away from Conall Hospital, to get away from the worst of it, that I met Victor.” Ruby smiled, popping open the mirror to check her teeth, and fished a tube of lipstick from her pocket. “He’s never flinched a single eyelash at anything I’ve told him. We even get along outside of bed.”

“Or examination room,” Belle teased with a grin.

Ruby smirked up at her. “My point is, sometimes making yourself happy is worth any amount of risk. And the fear that comes with it.”

“It isn’t that I’m afraid,” Belle protested, though she knew it was at least a half-stretched truth. The idea of Donat being able to damage her life and the small amount of respect she had earned by simply making insinuations about her _was_ frightening. 

“All right, don’t get me wrong, Donat Gaston is a _fine_ specimen,” Ruby praised with a little growl beneath her voice that had Belle rolling her eyes. “I wouldn’t kick him out of my bed for eating crackers. But if you don’t like him as a person, and you don’t enjoy ‘celebrating’ with him, and you aren’t so hard up for money that you need to marry it… Why go through with it?”

After a moment of open-mouthed hesitation, Belle said, “Because I made a promise. We’re engaged. Everything has already been arranged.”

It was Ruby who pulled a face this time. “You would give yourself to a lifetime of all sorts of dissatisfaction because you feel _obligated?”_

Belle clicked her nails against the underside of the counter, struggling to find a reason to stay with Donat that amounted to more than duty.


	26. Running Interference

All day, Belle meant to remove the stitches from Captain Gold’s hand, but it wasn’t until near lights out that she had the chance. The day had been frenzied, and she hadn’t a space of time enough to do it properly. She’d barely been able to sit with him a moment at a time as she passed by during meals. 

Nurse Mills was beside herself. The hospital was due for inspection, scheduled for the morning, and she’d had every nurse in the building hopping to at her orders since morning briefing. She had gone so far as to give even the patients orders.

“Every last man who can drag himself from his bed _will_ be washed and combed, covered with robe and slippers,” the head nurse barked from the center of the room that Wednesday afternoon. “I won’t have the inspector walk onto this ward and see the lunatic asylum I see most days.”

Even Mary Margaret had given Nurse Mills a disapproving look at her remarks. Only when the head nurse at last clocked out - they’d been treated to her staying two hours late - did the night shift dare to take easy breaths.

Belle brought quinine water around to the rest of her beds before bringing his on the instrument tray with her supplies. She sat next to him, offering the warm cup.

“It doesn’t help very much, you know,” he said, but he drank the sedative down, anyway.

“No, it doesn’t affect everyone in the same way.” She smiled, holding her hand out for his bandaged one. “Does it relax you a bit, at the very least?”

Rummond shrugged a shoulder, and he placed his hand palm-up in hers. He watched as she unwrapped the gauze with deft, careful fingers. 

As she exposed the wound, she found it looking wonderful, considering. It was a dark, healthy pink, a thin and curved line held inside the silk thread, with no spreading redness that might signal infection. It hadn’t bled in days; the gauze pad was almost completely clean when she pulled it away. The cut had healed together enough that removing the stitches wouldn’t harm anything, as long as he remained cautious with it for a few days more.

“Does it hurt? Is it sore at all?” she asked, probing gently around the cut with her fingertips.

Reluctantly, he admitted, “A little, now and then.”

“It’s likely still healing more deeply inside.” She patted his palm next to it, and rested his hand on her knee to reach for the bottle of mercurochrome. Soaking the center of a piece of sterile gauze, she painted the antiseptic over his stitches, and took up a pair of delicate sewing snips.

He watched her practiced hands as she slid one blade point between stitch and skin, neatly severing each in turn with a measured squeeze of the bow. It felt odd, the bits of silk pulling from his hand as she removed them with a fine tweezer, placing them in the stained gauze. He’d almost rather the feeling of them going in than the sensation of pulling the things out.

“Move your thumb,” she told him, and he gave it an experimental wiggle. “How does it feel?”

“A bit tight.” He frowned at his hand. In the scheme of all the wounds he’d received bodily, the glass in his palm was one of the most minor. Strange, that a scar already almost barely there would feel so peculiar.

She nodded. “It’ll be fine, once it’s finished healing. As long as the muscle doesn’t feel bound up.”

“It doesn’t.” He wiggled it again, and curled his fingers in, running his fingertips across it.

“Let it alone,” she scolded softly, and smeared a bit of ointment over it with the pad of her index finger. “The stitches may be out, but I want you to be careful with it. The scar is sealed, but if you’re too rough with it, it could break open again.”

All that was wrong with him, and she worried over so small an injury to his hand. A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. 

She wrapped it with less gauze than before - not enough to restrict the movement, this time - and began cleaning up. “Good night, Captain,” she said, standing with the instrument tray.

He looked up at her. She was _still_ calling him by the honorific, then. He did his best to not feel disappointed.

“Rummond,” she corrected herself. She wasn’t sure why her cheeks warmed at using his given name. He’d asked her to. “Good night, Rummond.”

“Good night, Belle,” he responded, and the genuine smile that took over his expression created a flutter in her stomach.

She went to switch the lights off, her answering smile feeling permanently installed on her face.

By the time she returned to the ward with her book and lantern, Capt- _Rummond_ had his back turned toward the corner where her chair sat, his blankets pulled high over his shoulder. She curled herself into the chair and propped the medical text against her knee, opening it to the place she’d marked with a slip of paper. The binding creaked, testifying to its immaculateness. It was a crisp, new, 20th edition of _Gray’s Anatomy_. She had happened across it when she went back to the shop to pick up the book for Captain Gold. For Rummond. When she saw the sleek burgundy cover, she’d _known_ what it was, having coveted the copy sitting on Dr. Whale’s desk every time she had to go in. And she couldn’t resist - she’d wanted it since the new printing came out the year before, but held herself back. Perhaps she’d bought it a bit out of spite, but it felt marvelous in her hands, and once she’d touched it, she couldn’t walk out of the bookstore without it.

She was leaning close to the lantern with the book held nearer her face, eyes squinted at the labeling in the shaded areas of an engraving of a human heart cross section, when she heard a noise. Belle sat up straight, resting the heavy book on her lap as she looked out over the ward, ears perked. She’d almost decided that the sound had come from outside, when it came again. A whimper, low and muffled, but there.

Belle closed her book and set it in the chair, taking her lantern by the wire handle. It wouldn’t hurt to do checks a bit early.

She walked out among the beds, listening. Again, a whimper. With very little surprise, she pinpointed it coming from Captain Gold’s direction, and backtracked to him. When she approached, Lieutenant Hargreaves raised up onto his elbow. She waved him down, whispering, “Go back to sleep.”

“Haven’t been,” Jefferson mumbled, but he buried his head in his pillow again.

“Captain Gold?” Belle leaned over him. He was still on his side, curled into as tight a ball as he could make himself. His body flinched, and he gave a yelp smothered behind a closed mouth. He’d obviously managed to get to sleep, but she could hardly be glad when he didn’t appear to be doing well on the other side of it.

She reached out, touching his shoulder. “Rummond?” she said softly. “Wake up.”

He whimpered again, and a shudder passed through him.

Neither words nor a touch waking him, she curled her hand around his upper arm through the blankets, giving it a squeeze and a gentle shake.

Rummond flailed, throwing off her hand and bolting upright, nearly bumping heads with her. She pulled back quickly, her hand raised in a calming gesture. He breathed as if he’d run a race.

“It’s all right,” she said, “You were dreaming. It’s all right.”

He looked at her with eyes that darted between her face and the room around them. “Nightmare…” he groaned, dropping his head into his hands and rubbing at his face. His skin held onto the prickly numbness of sudden awakening, and his mind held onto the dream. 

For once, it hadn’t been a jumbled recount of _those_ memories. There had been the forest’s muddy floor, streaks of blood mixed into it, and the sounds of gunfire and mortar fire, sources unseen. But there had been Neal, somehow. He’d looked the same as Rummond had last seen his son, and he sat in a clearing ahead, crying out inconsolably for him. Something felt heavy and dark on him and around him, and no matter how hard he ran, he couldn’t get to his boy.

“Do you want to tell-” Belle began, but he shook his head without looking up at her. She stood back, giving him time to catch his breath. “Do you think you can get back to sleep?”

He didn’t _want_ to go back to sleep, not and return to that. “I’ll try,” he said, aware of the lie.

“Do you want me to stay a while?” she asked.

Rummond hesitated. He did want her to. He wanted to feel the dip in the thin mattress that came when she sat on the edge, and hear the soft sound of her turning pages much closer than from across the room. “No,” he lied again. “I’m fine.”

She reached out to touch his shoulder, resting her hand there for a moment before taking her lantern and leaving his side.

He sat for a long while before lying down again, staring at the dark light fixture that suspended from the ceiling, trying to get rid of the feeling of his son being _just_ out of reach. It wasn’t a struggle to stay awake; falling asleep so fast in the first place had been an aberration. He listened to the ward, trying to separate the sounds of one snore from another, wishing the ache in his arms to hold his boy would fade.

Thursday morning, bright and early, Nurse Mills came in to rouse those not already awake. She walked down one aisle and up the other, clapping her hands sharply with a call of, “I may not have a bugle or bars on my lapels, but you’ll roll out, or so help me!”

Rummond sat up, not in need of a wakeup call, and began gathering his things so that he could get in and out of the washroom while it was still clean.

“Thought I’d left Reveille behind with the goddamn war,” Leroy grumped from across the ward.

Jefferson snorted a laugh. He scrubbed his hands over his face and through his hair, setting every strand standing on end. Nurse Mills stalked by, eyeing him with disapproval. “I’m gonna comb it,” he muttered when she was out of earshot, and ruffled his hands through again for the devil of it.

The head nurse gave the men less than an hour to get themselves in order, before returning to have at them again. Belle went about her early tasks - morning medicines and wound checks - and she was glad to see that Rummond’s morning seemed to be going better than his night had. He was sitting on the edge of his bed with his book open on his lap well before her superior came swanning back in.

Nurse Mills stopped next to Captain Gold’s bed, giving a judgmental rake of her eyes over him and his space. Belle hovered just out of suspicious range, watching and listening. She could see how he very purposefully kept his eyes on the page, rather than giving the head nurse an excuse to challenge him. Belle stuck a hand in her pocket, rattling her fingers through the pieces of candy in the bottom of it out of irritation with the woman.

“Oh, just move on,” she said under her breath.

“Careful,” a voice whispered behind her ear, and she startled so violently that she scattered peppermints and taffies over the top of her pocket as her hand came out. Graham stepped around to stand next to her, wearing an absolutely innocent grin.

“That wasn’t funny _at all_ ,” she hissed at him, squatting down to gather the wayward candies. “Why are you in such a good mood?”

“I enjoy inspection days,” he said, bending to pick up a taffy from next to his shoe. “Anything that gets on Regina’s nerves.”

Belle snatched the candy from his fingers and tucked it away again.

Rummond’s space was as immaculate as Belle had ever seen it. Everything had been perfectly squared away, and not even a wrinkle remained in the blanket on his bed. She sighed when Nurse Mills walked away from him. Rummond looked up, and she met his eyes with a smile.

“Haven’t you a nicer robe?” the head nurse asked when she reached Lieutenant Hargreaves’ space, looking down her nose at the slightly tatty garment with its age-dulled satin lapel and belt.

“This is all I have,” he said evenly. He was in an odd temper this morning, Belle could see, as annoyed as the rest of the men at being hauled out of bed so, though more unwilling than usual to choke down said annoyance.

“You’d do well to tell your wife to bring another when she and the moppet drag themselves in for a visit.”

Belle’s smile fell away. Nurse Mills was baiting him.

“I don’t have another,” Jefferson said through his teeth, his voice edgily brittle. “My wife made this one. It’s more than fine.”

Nurse Mills laughed, a short and shrill note, sounding more a chicken’s squawk than anything related to actual good humor. “No wonder Alice’s seamstressing barely keeps them fed.”

Jefferson shot to his feet, yanking the knot in his robe tighter, rather than moving toward the head nurse. “You’ll keep my wife’s name out of your mouth,” he bristled.

The head nurse smirked, and she stepped nearer him, instead. “I don’t think you’re in any condition to stay on the ward on such a sensitive day, Lieutenant,” she told him, all provocation gone and replaced with smug satisfaction in getting a heated response. She flicked her fingers to beckon an orderly from near the doors. “Gardner.”

Jefferson immediately shrank back. “No! No, I’ll be quiet!” he promised, bracing his feet against the tile in an attempt at keeping himself from being taken out as Gardner wrapped a hand around his upper arm, panicking and tearing at the orderly’s uniform sleeve. “Quiet as a dormouse!”

“You had your chance,” Nurse Mills said with a curled lip.

Belle watched helplessly. Jefferson couldn’t abide enclosed spaces, and the room used for confinement was _small_. All she could do was get him out as soon as possible, but Nurse Mills continued to cast a seemingly omniscient eye on the ward around her for now. She found Rummond looking at her with curious, worried eyes, and she shook her head at him, willing him not to say or do anything to draw the head nurse’s attention.

Belle had been working at Firefly Hill through three previous inspections, and she understood the stress, if not Nurse Mills’ reaction to it. The inspector was a demanding and uncompromising man, a non-medical administrator for a big hospital in Leeds, and he found fault with the slightest of things.

The man escorted in by Dr. Whale was not the stocky, barrel-chested man with wisps of red hair that Belle had seen before. This inspector was taller than their own administrator, with a short, neatly-trimmed beard, and a wedding ring on his hand. He couldn’t have been much older than Graham. She wasn’t sure what to make of him. Nurse Mills hurried over to them.

“Ah, Nurse Mills!” Dr. Whale greeted her cheerfully. “This is Dr. Robert Coughlan - he’s assistant administrator for Sherwood Memorial. He’ll be our inspector in future.”

“Head Nurse Regina Mills. What happened to Mr. Lackland?” she asked, her smile ready but frazzled as she offered her hand.

“He died very suddenly. Apoplexy. Quite sad,” Dr. Coughlan said. His smile sobered a bit, but the gleam in his eye remained. He didn’t appear terribly upset, Belle noticed. He held onto Nurse Mills’ hand longer than was necessitated by politeness, and she didn’t appear to mind at all. “You may call me Robin, Nurse Mills. Most of my associates do.”

The head nurse’s smile changed into one Belle had never seen on the woman’s face before, but she didn’t have time to consider it before Dr. Whale and Dr. Coughlan shook hands. Dr. Whale left, and Nurse Mills brought the inspector farther into the ward. The east ward nurses took their places at regular intervals along either side of the aisles; Belle had a three second silent argument with Nurse Boyd over the position nearest Rummond’s bed, but the younger nurse finally ran across to stand next to the bed most recently occupied by Tillman.

Dr. Coughlan glanced at the area around Belle, but there were none of the questions Mr. Lackland would have posed, and they moved past.

“Where is this patient?” he asked, pointing to Jefferson’s obviously inhabited space.

“Lieutenant Jefferson Hargreaves. He’s having a bit of a behavioral problem this morning,” Nurse Mills said. Belle frowned behind her back. “A common thing on a shell shock ward. He’s spending some time alone as a result.”

They walked slowly past each bed, and Belle breathed more easily the farther away they got. She looked over her shoulder at Rummond. His hands held the edges of his book too tightly, pushing the pages in waves toward the center. His gaze was fixed somewhere past Lieutenant Booth’s bed. He seemed to be controlling himself very carefully, but his face had blanched, and she could see a tremor in his hands.

Belle looked over to Nurse Mills and the inspector, making sure of their position, before turning to him. “Rummond?” she said quietly.

He didn’t move, but after a moment, he spoke. “I’m here.”

“What’s the matter?” she asked, glancing up again.

Rummond opened his mouth, but it took a few tries for him to shape a word. “Kendrick,” he breathed. Kendrick _again_. He’d locked with the boy’s pained green eyes, and he couldn’t look away.

“He isn’t there,” Belle told him gently. She reached out, touching the back of his shoulder, then felt badly for it when he startled.

“I _know_ that. Doesn’t k- keep him from being r-right _there_.” Kendrick began to bleed from the blackened hole at the center of his chest. A slow trickle, at first, dripping and spattering the tile at the boy’s feet. As it gathered, the flow increased, creating a pool that spread wide and fast. The edge disappeared beneath Booth’s bunk and reappeared out the other side, running toward him until he was forced to lift his feet from the floor.

His breathing grew labored, and he made a small, distressed sound with each exhale. Belle looked away from him to see the head nurse looking back at her. Her stomach dropped. It would be just like Nurse Mills to have him taken off the ward in a demonstration of power for her very friendly inspector.

“Rummond, look at me. _Rummond_ ,” Belle said, demanding his attention, hoping that maybe breaking away from what he saw would banish the hallucination. She didn’t know whether he wouldn’t listen or if he no longer heard her, but he didn’t answer. Needing to fix this before Nurse Mills came back and did something to hurt him, she pushed aside a twinge of doubt and reached up, cupping his chin in her hand and physically turning his face toward her. Caught off guard, he didn’t resist.

“Look at me,” she said softly. Belle smiled through the knot in her stomach, finding a smile for him when she caught hold of the warmth in his frightened eyes. “Just look at me for a minute, all right? Give me every bit of your attention.” She spoke to occupy his senses, and after a little longer, she let her hand fall away from his face, and asked, “Is he still there?”

Hesitantly, Rummond looked back. But Kendrick was no longer there, and neither was the pool of blood. “He’s gone,” he gasped, and pulled in a deep breath of relief, bowing his head as his heart and lungs caught up to him.

“Do you need me to get you off of the ward?” Belle suggested. If he did, she would find a way.

Rummond considered it, but he shook his head. Attention was too close this morning.

“If you decide you need me to, I will. All you have to do is catch my attention.” She stepped back, turning away only enough to be called turning, keeping him in her peripheral vision.

Nurse Mills and Dr. Coughlan came back around the other aisle, stopping between the beds and the ward doors. “I understand you have an electric shock therapy room?” he asked expectantly, turning raised brows on the head nurse.

“We do, indeed,” Nurse Mills confirmed, pride filling her voice. “Would you like to see? I think you’ll find it not only interesting, but well-assembled.”

Dr. Coughlan smiled at her, broad and bright. “I should like to see that.”

“You’ll have a personal tour, then.” The head nurse grinned, motioning toward the doors.

Belle watched as they left the ward, not sure what had happened, and not quite sure how she felt about it, either.

She looked to Rummond. “I’m going to fetch Lieutenant Hargreaves back. I won’t be long,” she told him, waiting only long enough for him to acknowledge he’d heard before scurrying away.

Confinement and Nurse Mills’ destination both lay in the south wing, though thankfully a fair distance apart. The light in the ‘therapy’ room was still on when she snuck past, and she could hear their voices inside. They didn’t sound in too great a hurry to leave. 

Still, she got to confinement as quickly as she could. She slipped the bolts at the top and bottom of the door and waved Lieutenant Hargreaves toward her. He had sat down and pressed himself against the wall next to the door, and as soon as he saw it open, wasted no time at all in flinging himself into the open corridor.

“Thank you, _thank you_ ,” he burst as he got to his feet, following her hurried pace back toward the east wing. “But Her Majesty is going to be one peeved shrew, you know.”

“She can stick it up her stays,” Belle muttered the dismissal she’d heard out of her mother as a girl, her own temper grown thin.

“Such coarse language,” Jefferson said, managing to sound a bit scandalized. “I might faint.”

She glanced over at him and laughed, though she might have found it more amusing if he didn’t look as if he _could_ actually faint. 

"Go on back," Belle told him when they got into the east ward hallway, near the supply closet. "I need to get something."

She ducked inside the closet, grabbing the hardbound book from next to her purse. When she stepped out again, she found Jefferson precisely where she'd left him, waiting for her with his hands pushed deep into his robe pockets. The troubled look on his face flicked suddenly neutral when he saw her.

“All right, back to your bed,” she said, shooing him on. She should have taken him right in instead of stopping, however quick her stop was.

Rummond was looking in his table drawer for a missing card when Belle came back with Jefferson. The Lieutenant was red around the eyes, pale, appearing dented in spirit. He made his way back to his bed, climbing beneath the covers with his robe on and keeping a weather eye on the doors. Rummond knew exactly who he watched for.

“I have something for you,” Belle chirped, offering him a bright green book with the title and a cricket illustrated on the cover in giltwork. “I wanted to get it to you before your appointment.”

His hand still shook as he reached, and she opened her fingers to graze his with them as he took it. “I hope it’s all right. It’s really all I could find that I’m sure he doesn’t have.”

“How do you know he doesn’t have a copy?” Rummond asked, looking the book over, turning it in his hands. It was nicer than any book he’d ever owned, himself.

“I made sure to look when I went in, before I visited the shop.” She watched as he admired the art and lettering on the spine. “It’s all right, then?”

“Oh, it’s just right.” He shook his head, looking up at her. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome,” she said, smiling, and was happy to see him reflect it. “I have some things to do, but I should be on the ward from lunch through to the end of shift.”

Rummond nodded, placing the book carefully on his bedside table until time to see Dr. Hopper came around.

Belle needed to find Graham, first of all. Nurse Mills may currently have been occupied, but that didn’t mean she would forget about her invidiousness toward Lieutenant Hargreaves.

She looked back, catching Rummond with the book again, holding it open just a crack to page through without endangering the binding, a small smile on his face. She would never let slip to him that she hadn’t paid for the book using the check he gave her. Though, she _had_ found a use for it. Voided and folded crisply in half, his check marked her place in _Gray’s Anatomy_.


	27. Missing

He’d been relieved of his chaperone for the time being, making the walk down to Dr. Hopper’s office unusually quiet. As much as Humbert’s escortment back and forth had chafed at him, he’d grown accustomed to the boy tagging along. The young orderly didn’t engage in a _great_ deal of conversation, but even the simple company of a second set of footsteps had become welcome without his realizing it as time wore on.

Rummond changed the book he carried to his left hand, reaching up to tap at the psychologist’s office door the way Humbert always did. Almost immediately, the doctor opened it, greeting him with a smile.

“Come in, come in,” Dr. Hopper said, stepping aside so that his patient could, and closed the door behind him. “No helper today, hm?”

“I suppose someone thought I would do well with charge over myself this morning.” With what he’d seen while the inspector was on the ward, Rummond wasn’t too sure of that, himself. “I, ah- I have something for you,” he said, holding out the book.

Dr. Hopper blinked in pleased surprise. “Me?” he asked, brows raised over top of his glasses. It took him a moment to move to accept it.

“A supplement to my apology for…” One corner of Rummond’s mouth twitched sheepishly, and he looked at the corner of the desk occupied by the doctor’s small gathering of insect whatnots. “Losing my temper. Your crickets.”

“No harm done, I told you.” Dr. Hopper smiled easily, turning the book to look at its cover. His smile brightened further as he read the title. _The Biology and Evolution of Gryllus Rubens_. “I’ve had my name in for this for months! The Entomological Society of London generates quite the waiting list; it’s very troublesome for the unassociated amateur,” he chattered.

“You like it?” Rummond ventured. Dr. Hopper looked as if he might actually tear up, and Rummond flushed a little, that the doctor seemed so happy with it.

“Like it? I won’t have my nose out of it for weeks.” Dr. Hopper laughed in delight, running a hand over the cover. It would be terribly impolite to open it during a session. He thought about skipping lunch to spend time skimming through it. “Thank you, Captain Gold.”

More of the bit of guilt he held onto over losing his temper unwound. As the doctor headed toward the desk, Rummond turned to make his usual detour by the bookcase, to take the pocketwatch and tools with him over to the sofa.

Dr. Hopper placed the book next to his blotter, taking his time in turning to the current page of his patient’s file while Captain Gold unwrapped the pocketwatch from its handkerchief. He knew that the inspector was on hospital grounds, and knew well how Nurse Mills agitated the men on the wards throughout such visits. He had no intention of getting into the worst of _any_ of his patients’ problems today. For Captain Gold, that meant no in-depth talk of the war or his father, but there were things they had barely touched on that he thought might be more safely brought out in this session while still making some variety of progress.

“What would you say to discussing your mother during our appointment today, Captain?” he asked, sliding the lid of his fountain pen onto its base.

Rummond, still orienting himself with where he’d left off in the watch’s disassembly the last time he’d picked it up, looked at the doctor. He’d surely misheard. This had come up months ago. “She died when I was born,” he said a bit slowly.

“I remember you telling me as much,” Dr. Hopper acknowledged. It had been that and nothing else. “But I believe we can still discuss her, to some extent. If that wouldn’t be too much for you today?” he added, not so much to provide his patient with an out, as to see what his reaction to the statement might be.

After staring at the doctor for a few seconds longer, Rummond shrugged, turning his attention firmly back to the watch movement, and chose a screwdriver. “Doesn’t matter, I suppose. I don’t know what you intend on getting into, though. I never knew her.”

Dr. Hopper watched as Captain Gold painstakingly extracted a screw so small that he couldn’t see it from where he sat. “That doesn’t mean she didn’t mean something to you. We discussed your son and ex-wife having an effect on your life, despite being apart from you.”

Rummond huffed a dispirited laugh. “Neither of them has been dead for forty-four years, is the difference.” He’d done a great deal wrong, in regards to his family - his ex-wife loathed him and his son might not even know him, if he ever saw him again - but at least he hadn’t killed _them_.

“Did you know anyone who knew her, when you were a boy? Her parents or siblings, friends, anyone?”

“Never met her, never met anyone else who met her, apparently. Except, of course, my father, and he wasn’t at all forthcoming.” Captain Gold said it very matter-of-factly, but there was a prickliness beneath the surface that Dr. Hopper suspected was more out defence than anger.

“Do you know her name?” the doctor asked gently.

The Captain was quiet for such a long time that Dr. Hopper wondered if he simply might not answer. He began to consider what his patient might respond more positively to.

“Hannah,” Rummond said at last, speaking with a careful reverence.

The doctor smiled, though Rummond didn’t look up to see it. “Were you ever told anything about her, as a person?”

Rummond shook his head. “I speculate that her eyes might’ve been brown?”

He didn’t know if there were never any photographs, or if his father had gotten rid of them with the rest of her things. Malcolm’s eyes were blue, a grayish sort, and hazy. He thought that meant his mother’s eyes must have been brown. Even if they hadn’t, even if his own eyes came from elsewhere, he was glad of not being forced to see his father’s eyes every time he looked into a mirror.

“I know her maiden name,” he murmured. “Only because she passed it along to be my given, but it’s something.”

“You know nothing of her personality, or what she looked like?” Dr. Hopper continued.

 _“No!”_ Rummond snapped at the doctor, tossing the screwdriver down, and tried to concentrate on what he needed to pick up next. Hadn’t he just said as much?

Dr. Hopper reeled back on his questions a bit at the touched nerve, giving his patient a few moments of quiet.

“What was her maiden name?” he asked, toning it more conversationally than as a therapist probing for information.

“Drummond,” Captain Gold said, slipping a tweezer from its leather pocket.

“Did someone tell you how you came about your name, then?”

“My father, once. He was drunk,” Rummond answered shortly. The only person who could have told him, as far as he knew. “He didn’t care for it. He’d wanted to name me after his father. But he… He said it was a good thing he didn’t, after all.”

Dr. Hopper halted that particular line of query, understanding the direction in which it was going, and not wanting to take him there today. They needed to steer back toward his mother.

“Your father _never_ spoke of her otherwise?” he asked, hoping that he could do with as few aside mentions of the man as possible on the way.

“Only insofar as using her death as a weapon,” Rummond muttered, ducking his head. He fiddled with the pocketwatch, barely touching it, not understanding why the doctor’s chosen topic was interfering with the repair work that usually came so easily.

With Captain Gold’s answer and the effect it had on him, Dr. Hopper decided to take yet another direction. It kept circling back around. That _would_ need talking about, but not just now. He wondered for a bare second how a father could justify never talking about his child’s mother to him, but considering what he’d learned of his patient’s father thus far, he couldn’t find it terribly surprising. He went so far as to wonder if the man might have considered it a punishment, and he was reasonably certain that was what it would seem like to a child, intended or not.

“Did you miss your mother, growing up?” the doctor asked, veering toward something more specific.

“She was never there.” Rummond shrugged one shoulder, trading one unused tool for another. 

“That isn’t an answer, Captain Gold,” Dr. Hopper pointed out.

Rummond considered. He wasn’t sure what _missing_ her might have felt like. He’d never had many real friends, but most of the other children he’d known in town, their mothers did things for them. Treats, comforting them when they’d been hurt, coddling them when they were sick, tucking them in. He’d known about those things. He remembered envying them so much it made him feel ill.

“I missed what might’ve been,” he said as he landed at the conclusion.

Dr. Hopper asked, “You thought of her often?”

“Fairly.”

Rummond noticed the room go quiet again in the wake of his brief reply, and he glanced up to find the doctor looking at him with brows raised in expectation. He sighed. “Of course I thought of her often.”

“In what way?” Dr. Hopper pushed, and he caught himself. “If you feel comfortable sharing those thoughts.”

“The usual ways, I imagine.” He looked down, watching the balance wheel spin with the slightest movement of his hand. The tool he held, he allowed to drop to the sofa cushion. “What she might’ve been like. Things she might’ve done.”

As a wee thing, he’d had fantasies of a mother who’d have doted upon him and loved him like nothing else. Kisses on his cheeks, a kind hand petting his hair, a lap to sit on. That lovely soap-and-perfume smell that all mothers seemed to have. The longer his father’s treatment of him went on, the dimmer those fantasies became. Eventually, there was no use in entertaining them at all. After a certain point in his life, all they achieved was pouring salt.

“Do you feel as if she abandoned you?” the doctor pressed carefully.

“What?” Rummond shook his head. “No.”

“It’s a common enough sentiment - feelings of abandonment after a parent’s passing, whether or not the death could be helped,” Dr. Hopper reasoned. “It doesn’t mean anything wrong, if you felt such a way.”

“No, I- I _don’t_ feel that,” Rummond said quickly. “She didn’t abandon me. I know it was no fault of hers. It was mine.”

“Yours?” Dr. Hopper asked, and _oh_ , with what he’d learned of his patient, he should have anticipated this.

Captain Gold went on, becoming more upset. “I was cheated out of knowing her, and it’s one thing I can’t blame on anyone else, no matter how you turn it around and try to thin it out into some manageable thing. Because it was _me_. _I’m_ the reason I had no mother,” he said, teeth clenched, jabbing at his sternum with his fingers.

“What makes you say that?” Dr. Hopper knew what was coming, now. He hadn’t meant to bring out something that hurt like this, not today, but it was too far along. To sit inside so near the surface and fester would be far worse.

Rummond sputtered, looking at the doctor as if he’d claimed to have a second head hidden somewhere. “Because it’s true!”

“Captain, were you ever told anything about the situation surrounding your birth?”

Rummond shook his head. “What do I need to know? Labor. I came out. She died,” he told the doctor with brutal brevity. “ _She died_. She died giving birth to me. Giving birth to me _killed_ her,” he said, growing louder with every repetition as he inflicted pain on himself with it. He pushed into the corner of the sofa back and arm, making himself smaller and wrapping his arms around his middle.

“Captain Gold-” Dr. Hopper began with the intention of comforting him, but there was no room to speak.

“It’s just as well, I suppose,” Rummond said quietly, his emotions having stacked as high as they could in it, the foundations of what he felt beneath his assurances about never knowing her and how it didn’t matter cracking and letting it all topple. “She’d have only been disappointed in the thing she made. Same as he is.”

“It’s likely that she held you,” Dr. Hopper said when his patient took a breath.

It may not have been the most professional of tactics, but he couldn’t sit by and allow Captain Gold to take what good things he had managed to cling to regarding his mother - conjecture though they might have been - and lump her in with his father, of all people.

Rummond blinked, taken aback. “What?”

Dr. Hopper gave him a gentle smile. “She had time to give you a name. Her _family name_ \- that’s an important gift. It’s likely that she had time enough to hold you, at the least.”

Rummond’s chest felt suddenly constricted, and tears leapt to his eyes at the idea. He went very still, eyes closing as his mind filled with the image of a small, faceless woman holding a damp and squalling newborn to her. The thought made him ache all over.

“Do you think so?” he whispered, not daring to look up.

“I would be surprised had she not.” Dr. Hopper quieted, keeping an eye on Captain Gold. His patient sat in silence, calming, and he wondered if perhaps the Captain had come through to the other side of this particular matter. A wound _that_ old and maltreated, to have any manner of a start at healing it was good headway.

He let Captain Gold be, waiting until nearer the end of the session before interrupting. “How are you feeling?” he asked, finding just over ten minutes on the clock. He would go over, if necessary, but there were others in need of time, as well.

Rummond looked to the doctor from an indented spot on the rug that his eyes had fallen to while he let his thoughts spin. It took him a moment to draw everything back together enough to answer.

“Better,” he responded in all honesty. He hadn’t realized just how badly he’d been bothered by the things they’d discussed, until they came out of him. Somehow, exposed to light, those thoughts no longer felt so sensitive to touch on. The doctor’s simple suggestion of what time his mother might have had with him relieved some of the hurt beneath them. He wasn’t sure _how_ , but he was thankful for it.

“Do you need to talk over it more? Anything about it?” the doctor asked.

“No, I…” Rummond offered a weak, lopsided smile, but it was a smile all the same. “It’s all right for now.”

Dr. Hopper returned his smile, relieved to see one. “It’s getting near the end of our appointment. If you wish to go ahead, you can. Or you can stay until time is over. It’s up to you.”

Rummond began putting the pocketwatch and tools away. “I’m still having nightmares,” he said, rolling up the leather tool case. 

Dr. Hopper paused in the middle of closing the file in front of him, surprised that Captain Gold volunteered the update. “And they’re still interrupting your sleep?”

“What little I get.” He tied the strap that secured the tools into a neat bow. “They started right after I managed to drop off last night. Rest of the night was forfeit.”

“Do you want to talk about what happened in them?”

Rummond looked at the doctor from the corner of his eye. He shook his head.

Dr. Hopper nodded. He wouldn’t push right now. Just broaching the subject without being prompted was impressive. “If you ever do decide that you want to, the offer stands.”

“It’s only…” Rummond’s brow creased. “I thought they would let up. Eventually.”

“You may well have these nightmares for the rest of your life, Captain, in one form or another,” Dr. Hopper told him, trying to break the fact with sympathy to it. “Our subconscious can inflict old traumas upon us long after they’ve been dealt with. And the traumatic events you survived were enough to cause real, lasting damage to your mind. That’s what shell shock is, the form you have. We’re working to blunt the effects of it, but it’s unlikely to be erased completely.”

Rummond frowned, nodding. He’d heard the same time and again over these last months. He still couldn’t quite wrap his head around the idea of managing to blunt any of it. The symptoms they’d labeled ‘shell shock’ seemed as clear and present as they ever were.

“Why don’t you take those back to the ward with you, if you like?” Dr. Hopper gestured to the watch and tools as Captain Gold moved to place them on the shelf.

“No, that’s- that’s all right,” Rummond said, though he considered it. It might be nice to have something to do when nothing else would hold his concentration. The watch repair was a part of this room, though, and the thought of taking it onto the ward felt odd.

The doctor stood and came around his desk to walk Rummond out. “Thank you again for the book. You really didn’t have to.”

Rummond waved off his thanks, stepping into the corridor. “Friday,” he said, citing his next appointment, and didn’t wait for the doctor’s reply before turning away. 

The walk back seemed longer, feeling as if it were his body he’d exhausted, rather than his mind. He was no less weary than usual after these therapy sessions, but all at once, he found a small difference in the day. The dread that always weighed on him and wore on his nerves with his visits to Dr. Hopper’s office… This morning, he hadn’t felt it.


	28. New Intrusions

“Commander Eric Strand,” the head nurse called over the east wing nurses gathered in her office for their briefing, silencing them. She began handing out updated rosters. “We’re getting him because, apparently, he isn’t doing well with previous arrangements. His family doctor attempted to take care of him at the Strand estate for as long as he could. It has come to a point where it’s obvious that he needs more help than could be provided privately.”

A murmur passed through the room with the announcement. Many of them had seen him in the newsreels, alongside his father, Admiral Riordan Strand. It was common knowledge that Admiral Strand died in the Battle of Imbros, and that his son had been there to see it. Eric Strand had been well known even before the war as one of London’s most eligible bachelors - as well as one of the wealthiest. He had a reputation of being difficult to please, as far as finding a wife went. Reputation deserved or not, he’d never been known to court, and he’d become all but a recluse after the war.

Belle expected to hear the gears of plotting turn in the heads of the unattached nurses among them. Though there was interest in some of the women’s faces, it was nothing like the number she thought. Then she remembered - Commander Strand had lost a leg in the same battle he’d lost his father.

“I can see some of you getting your hopes up,” Nurse Mills said, shoving the last roster toward Nurse Halloran with a scathing look. “ _Don’t_. Commander Strand is the same as the rest of the… ‘men’ on the ward.”

The head nurse’s scornful tone had Belle pinching her lips together. She examined the sheet of paper in her hands, doing her best to ignore her superior’s behavior. Commander Strand had been given Tillman’s bed; he was assigned to her section of the ward, then.

“He’s scheduled to arrive before lunch,” the head nurse continued. “I’ll have extra duties for some of you this morning, and I’ll want them attended to as soon as I speak. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the chorus of affirmatives went around.

Nurse Mills looked at her underling nurses with the same general disapproval that she seemed to keep in regards to each and every one of them. “Dismissed.”

Belle had to urge Nurse Halloran out ahead of her, the girl still appearing shaken. “Ariel?” she asked, once they were out and the door had been closed. “Are you all right? I know Nurse Mills can be-”

“Hm?” The younger nurse’s eyes flicked up to meet hers. “Oh, no, it isn’t her. Well, I mean, she’s scary, but that isn’t why-” She shook her head, smiling, and began to gush, “Commander Strand! I saw him in _so_ many newsreels. My father and I saw every one that showed in town. He’s just lovely.”

“He is quite handsome…” Belle agreed more out of gladness that Nurse Halloran’s affections weren’t so easily driven away by an injury, than out of any attraction of her own.

“No- He is, but what I mean is, he’s lovely, himself. He must be. I saw him reading Shelley.”Ariel nodded in excitement.

Belle looked at her with confusion. “When?”

“In one of the newsreels!” Ariel said, shaking her head and laughing as if Belle were bewildered for no reason at all.

“How could you see something as detailed as a book? The film is so grainy.”

“I recognized the art on the cover. I have the same edition,” Nurse Halloran chirped cheerfully, and she hurried off to see to the patients in the section that she shared with Nurse Boyd for the time being.

Belle followed more slowly after, tucking her roster away before pushing through the ward doors. Her eyes went immediately to Rummond where he sat on his bed, and he looked up, giving her a smile. Knowing that the day wouldn’t be an easy one, what with the identity of their new patient, his smile eased her a little.

She checked in with Lieutenant Booth, aware of Rummond’s gaze following her. It was a cursory exchange, for the most part, as Booth never had much to say. Not regarding his condition, at least. Probably the least troublesome patient on the ward, he was more than happy to flash his wide, charming smile and flirt with the nurses, but he hardly spoke to the other servicemen. She had to wonder whether Dr. Hopper got anywhere in their sessions.

She patted the iron frame of Rummond’s bed as she passed by. She’d gotten into a habit of checking on the rest and saving him for last, to keep from having to hurry through conversation with him. He smiled up at her again, watching as she stopped to speak with Lieutenant Hargreaves, and then as she moved farther on.

Rummond’s head was bowed over his book when she returned to him. He had been faring well over the past week, seeing a few good days in a row, all things considered. Sleep was still difficult to come by, but he’d had something of a reprieve from the hallucinations, being confronted by only one before visitors began to arrive on Sunday morning. And to say that Belle was relieved at his improved eating habits would be a vast understatement. He continued to turn breakfast away, most days, but his lunch and dinner had begun disappearing by half.

She could tell that he’d gotten a small chunk of the book behind him - not enough that it was noticeable, if one weren’t paying attention to it - and she found a small victory in his concentration improving, as well. It might be temporary, but she was glad for even that.

“Good morning,” she greeted, leaning her leg against the side of his mattress, and laced her hands to hang in front of her.

“Good morning,” Rummond echoed. He looked up at her with a slight squint to his eyes in defence against the morning sun that came in the windows behind her.

“And how are you so far today?” Belle asked.

Rummond shrugged, though it wasn’t the dismissive gesture he gave others. “They’ve arrived at Vanikoro. Nemo is just showing Arronax the old military orders. So, I suppose it’s a good day.”

Belle felt Nurse Mills step onto the ward. It was a combination of the sound of the door and the short hesitation in noise from the other patients, but she would swear to being able to feel when the head nurse’s eyes were upon her.

Nurse Mills had been eyeing her since the day of the inspection. She knew that the head nurse _must_ know that it was she who went and released Jefferson from confinement the moment her back was turned, but Nurse Mills hadn’t yet said anything. Belle had been keeping herself as busy as possible when her superior was around, to have legitimate reasons to avoid Nurse Mills’ path. It seemed to be working, thus far.

“Breakfast will be out soon,” Belle said, as if she could tempt him into eating it _this_ morning.

A soft, noncommittal, “Hm,” was all the response she got from him, and she gave Rummond a narrow-eyed grin.

“Here, then.” She slipped a peppermint from her apron pocket, knowing that this she _could_ tempt him with, and held it out to him between her fingers. It wasn’t a decent English breakfast, but it was sugar, and any calories she could get into him were good ones.

Rummond looked from the bit of candy, up to her face, and back. He took the peppermint with a shy half-smile and more contact than might truly have been needed. His fingertips grazed along hers, warm and gentle, and she found herself with a sudden wish that he had allowed his touch to linger.

The touch, small as it was, wasn’t something he’d have allowed just a few weeks ago, and she reveled in the way it sent a strange tickle through her insides.

“Today is likely to be a busy day,” Belle said, wanting to explain why she might not be around as much, so that he wouldn’t have to wonder. “A new patient is coming in - of the prominent sort. Nurse Mills is apt to have all the nurses on the ward hopping around over it.”

Rummond felt a small flash of disappointment, but it _was_ a hospital, for God’s sake. He nodded. “I do know how to keep myself busy.”

Belle smiled, holding her attention on him, but her nerves itched in response to Nurse Mills’ presence just out of her periphery. “If you need something in particular and I’m not nearby, try to catch Nurse Lucas’ or Nurse Halloran’s notice, and they’ll help or let me know.”

“Nurse French,” came the head nurse’s voice upon approach, enunciation languid and purposeful in her interruption.

Belle resisted the urge to scowl. She turned, a polite smile on her face. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I want you to bring out a new set of bed linens from supply. Take them down to laundry, have them freshly washed. And have Mr. Humbert fetch a new mattress from storage,” the head nurse directed. “Send Nurse Lucas to me, if you cross paths with her.”

“Right away.” Belle nodded sharply, heading for the doors. She wanted to give a look back toward Rummond, but with Nurse Mills lurking right next to him, she didn’t quite dare.

Rummond returned his attention to the book lying open on his lap. Don’t engage with the head nurse and she might go off to see to other tasks, he figured.

Nurse Mills turned on her heel to face him again, though, as if sensing his avoidance. “Quite the distraction, aren’t you?” she muttered.

He looked at her from the corner of his eye before turning his head to see her properly. “I didn’t realize that a short exchange during morning rounds qualified as distraction.”

The snarling smile that formed at the edges of her mouth was not a good sign, and he knew then that he should have kept his mouth shut. She bent closer, a hand resting on the corner of his bedside table in a gesture that felt trapping, a show of power. “I’m not certain how you’ve compelled Nurse French into spending so much time on _you_ , but I know there is something unsavory to it.”

 _Unsavory_? “I’m sure you’re implying something,” Rummond said, frowning up at her, “but I believe you’re mistaken.”

“She’s a nurse - an engaged nurse, at that - and you somehow have manipulated her into being all but a servingmaid. Don’t think I’ve missed the favors, the company-keeping, the special meals in an attempt to cure you of your _sulks_ ,” she hissed, leaning an inch farther into his space. “What is it that you want?”

He pulled back, the bit of bravery he’d been determined to face her with shrinking in response to her accusations and intrusion. 

When her remark went unanswered, she shook her head as if she’d expected it. She lowered her voice to a malicious whisper. “Do you think, you make yourself pathetic enough for her, she’ll hike her skirts up for you? How dare you?”

Rummond flushed intensely, humiliated. Was that what it looked like? Was that what he was _doing_?

“Do you really think you’re the first to go after her?” she asked, smug with the cutting of her words. “Believe you me, ‘Captain,’ you won’t be the last to make the attempt. And certainly not the best.” Nurse Mills stood up, smoothing her apron flat again. “Now. As we’ve straightened that out. I believe that Nurse French was sent on her errands before she could get to your morning medication, correct?”

“I don’t have morning medication,” he answered, his voice small and feeling as if he had to dredge it up from somewhere far away. 

“You’ve been having trouble sleeping, have you not?” she asked, patronizing, and returned to the lofty position of looking down her nose at him. “We have a remedy for those with extended periods of difficulty.”

The head nurse pulled a glass bottle from her pocket, unscrewing the metal lid with a grinding sound. She shook a pair of tablets into her hand and dropped them into the middle of his book. They rolled down the indention, and he moved slowly to pick them up. 

One of the ward doors opened, banging against the side of the dining trolley as Quinn brought it in. The orderly parked it at the head of the aisle and began handing out trays. Nurse Mills stopped Quinn short of bringing Rummond’s over, taking the cup of tea from it before waving the rest away, not so much as offering it to him. She set the tea down on the bedside table roughly enough to slosh it over the lip of the saucer and onto the tabletop.

“Take them,” she said, flicking a harsh gesture toward the pills.

He opened his hand and looked at the little white tablets. He could sleep, take himself completely out of Nurse French’s care for a few hours, keep her from running afoul of Nurse Mills’ sharp tongue because of his demanding.

“You would do well to leave my nurse alone for the rest of your stay,” the head nurse told him, the threat not quite underlying. “Allow her to do her job, and you… You do whatever it is you think you’re doing here.”

Rummond lifted the teacup, dragging the base against the saucer’s rim to stop the spilled tea from dripping, and blew into the edge before taking a sip enough to swallow the tablets with.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

“Ruby, Nurse Mills wants to see you,” Belle said, glad to see her friend coming out of the adjacent corridor as she came up from the laundry. She’d seen Graham on the way down, and she hadn’t relished the idea of hunting for Ruby, which she knew was precisely what the head nurse expected upon saying, ‘ _if_ you cross paths.’

Ruby screwed up her face. “I’ve just done three of her errands. Why doesn’t she do something for herself.”

“But you know good and well that’s what she has us for.” Belle grinned at her own tinge of sarcasm. The excitement would wear down in a day or two, and even Nurse Mills would level out to her normal state of abrasion, for the most part. As contemptuous as the head nurse behaved toward the men on the east ward, an important person was an important person. Belle knew that Nurse Mills would apple-polish to his face, even if it turned to distaste out of his presence.

“I don’t appreciate being sent off to the kitchen to give Miss Rampion her condescending orders,” Ruby groused. “I don’t give them word for word, but still.”

“What kind of orders?”

“She’s demanding ‘thoroughly stomachable meals in the future.’ As if the cook doesn’t do her best. The food here is already better than it was at Conall, and the cook there was no slouch. Maybe Miss Rampion will give her ptomaine poisoning for the offense,” Ruby said, appearing cheered by the idea.

“I don’t think Nurse Mills eats from the kitchen.” Belle shook her head, only feeling a little guilty for the smile she gave Ruby instead of a chiding. “Does your Granny know anything about making quilts?”

Ruby laughed, then asked, “Oh, you’re serious? No, Granny is all knitting and crochet. She says she doesn’t have the patience for quilting, that I use it all up.” She grinned. “Why don’t you ask Mrs. Potts? Maybe she’ll know.”

“Probably.” Belle nodded. “It’s only… I hate to bother her. She’s so busy, between the house and her grandson.”

Ruby wrinkled her nose. “He’s still being a little hellion?”

“He misses his mother.” Belle didn’t know much more about the boy’s motivations than that, but she could sympathize at least that far.

“Why do you ask about quilting? Something for your trouss-” 

“Nurse French!” Lieutenant Hargreaves rounded the corner in front of them, stopping with a skid of his slippers. He stayed where he stood, waving a hurrying hand at her, practically vibrating in distress. “You’d better come. Captain Gold.”

Belle sped up, and he hurried alongside her as she passed him. “What’s happened? Can you tell if he’s hallucinating? Or has something set him panicking?”

“No, no no, nothing like that. He’s-” Jefferson shook his head. “You’ll see.”

She’d gone off the ward and left Nurse Mills right beside him. It had been a bad idea and she knew it, but she wasn’t sure what else she could have done. And now the spiteful thing had done something.

When Belle rushed in, the ward was quiet. Rummond was lying in his bed, still and covered in his blankets, his back to the doors. Jefferson moved back and forth between the beds, looking over Belle’s head as she leaned to check on the smaller man.

“Rummond,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. His features were more relaxed than perhaps she had ever seen them. He didn’t flinch an eyelash when she went on to shake him. “Rummond, I need you to open your eyes for me. Right now.”

“She gave him something,” Jefferson offered, pausing in his restless hovering.

There had been nothing new in his chart this morning, no orders from Dr. Whale. That meant Nurse Mills had done this on her own. “Did you see what it was?”

“I didn’t see the name. It was an amber bottle with a blue and white label. Yea big.” He stretched a hand out where she could see, measuring a few inches between his forefinger and thumb.

“Luminal. How many tablets? Could you tell?”

“Two. She threw them at him. Told him they’d help him sleep.”

“ _Two?_ God in Heaven.” Her stomach turned, and she felt her face go cold as she blanched. There was no wonder he didn’t wake.

Belle sat on the edge of the bed, folding the covers back so that she could touch his wrist, then pulled them back up over his shoulder. Carefully, she eased open one of his eyes, finding his pupil dilated wide. His pulse was slow, and he breathed, but she could barely see the rise and fall of his chest. 

Nurse Mills had given him too large a dose. _Far_ too much. The woman had been a nurse plenty long enough to know the right dosage for any patient. It had to be purposeful.

“What did she say?” Belle asked. “Anything?”

“She was talking to him for a while. I couldn’t hear. He started looking funny, and she gave him the pills.” Jefferson walked around to the other side of the bed, bumping the book he’d lent his bunkmate to make it square with the table. It was something that Captain Gold always did, and seeing it overhanging the edge looked wrong. He went back to stand behind Nurse French again.

Belle sat, holding the edges of her nails to her lips and fearing how much Luminal was _too_ much for him. His height and weight, she’d have shaved off a piece of a single tablet, if it was absolutely necessary that he have it. But _two_ …

He continued to breathe, though it was such a close thing that she held the back of her hand beneath his nose more than once in the hour she kept watch over him. Eventually, she had to check the time. She had other responsibilities, worried as she was about leaving him.

“Can you do me a favor?” she asked Lieutenant Hargreaves. He’d taken up a position on the side of his bed, staring at Rummond nearly as hard as she’d been.

“Anything within my power,” Jefferson said, giving an affected bow from his seat.

“Watch him?” Belle asked. “Watch his breathing. _Closely._ Will you do that for me?”

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. After what I saw, I couldn’t help keeping an eye on him.”

“Thank you.” Belle smiled as best she could. “I can’t sit here all day. Come here, sit right where I’ve been, and watch his breathing,” she repeated. “If he stops, you fetch Dr. Whale, and don’t let anything stop you from getting him back here.”

Jefferson nodded, taking her place. She looked back before leaving the ward, making certain that his eyes stayed on Rummond.

Would that she could have sat until Rummond awoke. She had duties to attend to - regular ones on top of who knew what else Nurse Mills would come up with. She wasn’t sure how she would keep from putting her hands around the head nurse’s neck, knowing what the woman had done.

She didn’t see Nurse Mills until their new patient was delivered to the hospital, though, and she was glad of it. Every moment she could find during the day, she dislodged Lieutenant Hargreaves to sit herself next to Rummond. She watched his breathing become more visible and his heart rate increase to a point where it no longer made her stomach hurt.

After tea time came around, while everyone was distracted by Commander Strand’s presence, Belle took a few minutes to sit with Rummond again. She curled her fingers around his wrist, breathing easier, herself, to find his heartbeat nearly up to rate with her own.

He’d actually moved at some point, while she’d had to step away. He slept now with a hand curled near his mouth, and she wondered if it might be a habit for comfort, or something he’d simply always done. She moved to cup her hand around the back of his, stroking her thumb across the back of his knuckle. Daring, she reached up to touch his hair, moving a few strands that had fallen across his cheek.

“Molesting a sleeping man. For shame,” Lieutenant Hargreaves whispered, smiling as he leaned across.

Belle gave him a scolding look for no reason other than being caught. Her expression softened, realizing that his teasing came from a place of relief.

Jefferson shook his head. “I wouldn’t tell.”

It was near four in the afternoon before Rummond began waking. When she saw him stir, she hurried down to the kitchen to fetch a cup of strong coffee, in hopes of getting his blood pressure up a bit and chasing the chemicals from his system. Zelda kept some in the kitchen, she knew, because Dr. Glass demanded a cup with his tea instead of, well, _tea_. 

Belle brewed it the way they’d made it in the field hospitals - strong enough to make her teeth clench - and loaded it with a half dozen lumps of sugar, along with a pinch of salt to cut the bitterness. With Jefferson’s help, she got Rummond into a sitting position, and if nothing else, he was able to hold the cup in his hands and lift it to drink. He didn’t speak, and couldn’t stay awake, but it seemed closer to a healthy sleep when she had to leave him again.

Near the end of her shift, Rummond was aware and sitting up on his own. She wound up staying an hour after clocking out to sit with him. Quiet and still, seeming rather dazed, he accepted her subtle fussing. She put his reticence off on the Luminal.

“Do you think you could eat something?” she asked. Dinner had come and gone, but she’d talked to Zelda about keeping a tray for him.

Rummond shrugged. His head felt full of cotton and everything around him seemed slow and jumpy, but he remembered why. The sleep he’d gotten felt artificial, and not as if it had helped anything at all.

Belle took his shrug as something more positive than a ‘no,’ and she asked Graham - who’d had a great deal of words over the course of the day regarding what Nurse Mills had done - go down for the dinner tray. The food had been heated over, and though it wasn’t the most appetizing thing to inflict upon a meal of sausage and cabbage, she was glad that Zelda had been thoughtful enough to do so.

He picked up the fork and pushed things around on his plate.

“If you’ll eat a few bites, I’ll leave you alone,” Belle said. She smiled, ducking to see his face. “You won’t have to see me prodding you to eat again until morning.”

Rummond shook his head. “You don’t have to,” he murmured so softly that she barely heard him.

“I don’t have to what?” she encouraged, hoping to get him to speak a bit more before she had to go.

“Don’t have to leave me alone.” She _should_ , though. Perhaps Nurse Mills was right. No woman like Nurse French would want the slightest thing to do with him. 

“I’ll stay as long as I can,” she promised. “Just eat a little?”

He was doing what the head nurse had accused him of doing, he realized. He was keeping her here, when she was meant to be elsewhere. He was forcing her to keep company with him, the way he behaved.

Rummond cut a piece of sausage, and though his stomach felt as if it wouldn’t allow anything solid to go down, he chewed the bite until it would.

“Anything Nurse Mills gives you… It might be a good idea to not take it, if you can help it,” Belle suggested. If the head nurse was being _that_ malicious, and bringing medication into it, she would have to keep a closer watch. “Hide it beneath your tongue or behind your teeth, and get rid of it when she leaves.”

“Once bitten,” he mumbled.

Belle frowned. He glanced over at her with sleepy eyes and gave her a smile that in no way reached them. She moved to touch his hand, to hold onto it for a moment while he was awake to know it. Gently, slowly, he slipped his hand away from her grasp.


	29. Regardless of Disbelief

To make sure that her emotions weren't clouding her judgment on the proportions of the situation, Belle slept on what she knew. If sleep was what it could be called. Nothing about her night turned out comfortably, harassed as she was by her thoughts, and when she woke with Rummond still on her mind and her stomach still in a knot over what Nurse Mills had done, she couldn't simply let it go.

Rummond was better when she checked in on him. He seemed wide awake, the lingering daze gone. Ruby had been on Tuesday's night shift; before leaving the evening before, Belle asked her to keep a close eye on him through the night. Ruby's morning report was a good one. He'd risen from bed around his usual time and gone through his morning ritual, and he sat with his book open on his lap when Belle arrived. He _did_ seem better, physically, but there was something lacking in his smile that nagged at her. She was glad to have her own night shift tonight.

After her checks and morning chores, she headed straight for Dr. Whale's office, intent on telling him what she knew. Since getting out of bed, she'd been practicing what she would say, imagining questions he might ask and how she might be able to answer them. Ruby's boyfriend he might be, but he was also the administrator, and going to him in that capacity made her nervous.

He was on his way down the corridor when she started up it, and he motioned her after him before she had, “I need to speak with you about Nurse Mills,” spoken aloud.

“I have patients to see to, Nurse French. Come along, if you can't wait,” he said, not a hesitation in his gait. He didn't walk at a clip as unforgiving as the head nurse, at least.

Barely restraining herself from pacing anxiously when he stopped at the front desk to gather charts, Belle tried again. “Dr. Whale... Nurse Mills has been handling medication irresponsibly.”

The doctor looked askance at her as he started off again. “Irresponsible? How do you mean, exactly?”

“She endangered a patient's life yesterday,” Belle told him, courage gathered. “I spent the day worrying over whether he might not live through it.”

Dr. Whale frowned a bit, glancing over at her again. “Continue.”

“She gave Captain Gold two tablets of Luminal.”

The doctor's concern seemed to dissipate rather quickly with her additional details. “We regularly prescribe Luminal to patients who have chronic, health-endangering insomnia. I _have_ seen Captain Gold's chart. I do believe he qualifies.”

She followed him through the doors of the north ward. “Yes, I know its uses well. But sir, _two_ tablets!”

He stopped and turned to look at her. “Perhaps that is a bit much. Nurse Mills is a professional, though, Nurse French. Her record is impeccable. She's the best head nurse I've had. I'm sure she took everything into account.”

Belle had an uncharitable thought about said impeccable record only being clean because it's owner was devious enough to keep it so. She kept it to herself. “He can't be more than a hundred and twenty pounds right now. He was barely breathing when I was called in to check on him. She's lucky she didn't kill him!” Her stomach lurched at the possibility, even with the immediate danger past, and she swallowed back a wave of nausea that followed.

Dr. Whale gave her an admonishing look. “We are on the burn ward, nurse. You can lower your voice.”

She knew that he expected her to feel reprimanded. And ordinarily, she would break eye contact, quiet herself to reassure him of his upper hand. She didn't oblige this time. “I wouldn't give a _single_ Luminal to most of the men on the east ward. I can't even remember the last time I heard it prescribed. This wasn't an accident.”

“What are you saying, Nurse French?”

“I'm saying, I believe it was malicious.”

His expression turned, and she could see that he was humoring her, now. “And why on earth would Nurse Mills do anything to harm a patient purposefully?”

It was this that brought Belle up short. Nurse Mills was antagonizing and awful to most every man on the ward at some time or another. But she could tell that the head nurse was more vicious toward Rummond than toward the rest; she just couldn't figure out _why_.

She was forced to admit, “I don't know.”

"I understand that you're protective of your patients - and that's the way it should be." Dr. Whale smiled, but there was a slight patronizing tilt to it. "However. Accusing your head nurse of intentionally harming patients is counterproductive."

She looked away, then, not because he'd intimidated her into it, but because a worrisome thought crossed her mind. "Will you report this to Nurse Mills?" she asked. She'd never had occasion to make a formal complaint against a superior, and the idea of the head nurse finding out about this one sent a chill through her.

"No." Dr. Whale seemed to become distracted with his own business again, but he spared an amused glance up at her. "I see no reason to bother her with it. Do you?"

Belle shook her head, not allowing her expression to betray a fraction of her relief. "Thank you, doctor," she said, though the last thing she felt was grateful for his disregard.

Little happier than when she set out to make her report, Belle walked what seemed a long way back to her own ward. Nurse Mills was a pillar of the hospital. She wasn't terribly surprised that nothing had come of talking to Dr. Whale about it - only disappointed. And more than a bit worried.

"You believe that she did it with purpose, don't you?" she asked Graham as he fell into step beside her.

Knowing where Belle was going and what she meant to do, he had been waiting for her at the front desk. "I'm sure of it." Graham frowned over at her. "Am I to assume that Dr. Whale didn't?"

"The best head nurse he's ever had!" she said, and it was a narrow thing, keeping the frustrated shriek out of her voice. "She has the wool pulled over everyone's eyes."

"Not everyone's," he assured her, walking her back. He had tasks of his own to see to, but he could take the time.

Belle stewed in her upset for a while, glad that Graham let her. He was a wonderful shoulder, and his advice was often spot on, but overly loquacious he was not. Today, that was a good thing.

She tried to shake off the frustration and anger before she was with her patients again. She had something else to ask Graham about, anyway, and that might hopefully sidetrack her thoughts from Nurse Mills.

Their conversation fell to half attention as they approached the ward. She couldn't tell whether Rummond had moved since she left - he still sat with his book in his lap, and he seemed to be looking at the pages, but she couldn't be sure that he took anything in. Belle's hand dropped to her apron as she and Graham talked, touching the right side pocket. She had a treat there, and she hoped that it appealed to him. She had a feeling that his meals wouldn't go well today.

Rummond held the book with his fingers resting between the open cover and his blanket. The pads of his thumbs ran in short strokes along the sharp edge of the book's pages, sending unpleasant jolts of expectation of a paper cut along the nerves in his hands. It was something to feel beyond emotions, and something no one looking could be any the wiser about.

He heard Nurse French's voice as she returned, and though he didn't allow himself to turn toward her as he so often did, his ears perked at the sound. Humbert accompanied her, and they stopped not far inside the doors, continuing a discussion that seemed to have begun in the hallway.

"He may be better off finding a permanent hospital," the orderly said, sounding dismayed. "A place specialized to it. There are some things that can't be handled on one’s own."

Nurse French sighed. "And with what he's been through already, with all that..."

Rummond looked. He couldn’t help looking, the way they talked. Nurse French was looking back at him, and Humbert glanced over, as well. She smiled, but he couldn’t find one to return.

"Sad to watch it." The orderly crossed his arms, looking down at the tile.

With Rummond watching, Nurse French seemed to lower her voice a bit. “Knowing what I know of his past, it isn’t fair at all. Poor thing.” She shook her head. “I should get back to work. And I’ve been keeping you. Go on,” she said, reaching up to tug at the orderly’s sleeve, and he grinned at her before leaving.

The ache that lived in Rummond's chest grew to a point where it was difficult to keep from raising a hand to rub at it. Few of the nurses and orderlies took into account how the ward's acoustics caused sound to carry on a quiet day.

Nurse French had been looking right at him. Was he that far gone? So far that a sanitarium was inevitable? That he couldn’t even be a useful part of society?

He heard it all over again. His father’s condemnations. Milah’s. _Useless. Worthless._ The nurse’s pity - ‘ _poor thing, poor man, barely keeps his head above water_ ’ - teetered at the top of the pile. He closed his eyes against it, squeezing them shut tight, trying to will away the pain it caused, and he felt himself begin to shake.

“Rummond?” A hand landed on his shoulder. Though it wasn’t ungentle, he flinched, and the pages of his book fluttered together. Nurse French suddenly stood over him.

He looked up, struck dumb by the flood in his head and her being so near, in the middle of it.

“Are you all right?” she asked, taking her usual seat on the edge of his bunk. She’d inched her way closer, over the course of these last weeks, and now usually sat not quite next to his bent knee. Something told him that he shouldn’t _be_ so close.

Belle saw how his hands trembled where they still rested on either side of his book. She reached out, resting her right hand over his, giving it a bit of a reassuring squeeze.

The urge to pull away won, and he took his hand from beneath hers with the excuse of setting the book aside, leaning back from her. “I’m fine,” he finally managed, though strained.

Belle regarded him curiously. His behavior had taken an odd turn, and though she was inclined to blame it on some lingering effect of such a high dose of Luminal, it didn’t feel right.

“I have something for you,” she said, and slipped a hand into her pocket. She brought out a small parcel, napkin-wrapped, and offered it to him.

“Food?” he asked. When she brought him something, chances were it was edible. Nurse Mills’ remarks about food and keeping company with Nurse French resurfaced in his thoughts. They stung, making his face burn, and he hesitated before taking the napkin. 

“Lavender lemon shortbread,” Belle said as he opened the starched fabric. She watched as he unwrapped it, folding back the corners, and peered inside.

Rummond found a half dozen round cookies that had been shaped with a cutter, large flecks of purple blossoms caught in the icing. He wasn’t hungry. He didn’t want them. But he didn’t want to be the cause of the look that crossed her face when he turned away something that she brought to him, either. 

“Did you make them yourself?” he asked, doing his best to make the question an offhand one.

Belle smiled sheepishly, remembering the queen cakes and how kind he was about _that_ mess. “Our cook made them,” she assured him. “I was only allowed to ice.”

His stomach lurched as he raised one of the cookies to his lips. It smelled nice - lemon and lavender and rich with butter - but it sat like a lump of coal, once he got it swallowed. He was a bit unfond of lavender as a flavor, not that he would tell her so. But it wasn’t that. The absence of a desire to eat made the action miserable.

He managed to eat two before his stomach gave a turn of warning, and he didn’t dare try to force more. “Thank you,” he said, folding one side of the napkin back over them. He fiddled with the embroidered edge, drawing the texture of the stitched pink roses between his thumb and forefinger. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.” Belle didn’t reach for his hand, not after his response the last couple of times she’d tried, but she gave his knee a gentle bump with the back of her fingers. It pleased her quite a lot that he would eat the little things she gave him, when he wouldn’t - or couldn’t - eat anything else.

Rummond offered the napkin back to her. “I believe I’ve held as much as I can. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, keep them,” she told him, waving away his apology and the cookies. “You might feel like eating more later.”

He smiled up at her, a real smile managing to reach his eyes at least a bit, and his fingers found the napkin’s edging again.

He’d meant to be discouraging her from being around him, pushing her away. Intention, as it turned out, held little meaning when it came to her perching there right in front of him. But her company was _so_ nice, and he was nothing if not a selfish bastard.


	30. Alienation

Nurse French’s rose-embroidered napkin, brushed of crumbs, sat neatly folded and tucked away beneath the pack of cards in Rummond’s bedside table drawer. He called himself keeping it safe for her. If she asked, he would return it. Otherwise, he’d decided that it would remain precisely where it was.

That didn’t mean, however, that the guilt over continuing to keep and enjoy her company wasn’t still pinching at him. Nurse Mills seemed to be spending more time on the ward, and he could feel her judgmental glare as he took up Nurse French’s attentions. He did his best to avoid asking for them, when he became aware that he was doing so. 

Rummond wasn’t sure which made him feel the worse - having her near while knowing how she felt sorry for him, or pushing her away.

His sessions with Dr. Hopper grew more difficult, though this time not as the result of topic. He could see as the doctor became frustrated with him. There were longer silences, unanswered and dodged questions. Appointments degenerated into general discussion of his days and symptoms; things that didn’t take a great deal of effort to drag out of him. It was just as well. Five days running, not a day had passed without seeing _something_ that wasn’t technically there. Even one of his appointments had been interrupted by the Austrian boy, and had ended with him pressing himself into the far corner of the room, trying to get away from the phantom Steyr-Mannlicher trained on his head. Humbert had been called to escort him back to his bunk, and his chaperone had been reinstated.

Belle had to leave the ward just before lunch, stepping into the nurses’ washroom. She ripped the cap off her head in annoyance, making the bobby pins that held it in place rattle to the floor. Her head hurt, and the pins in her hair were only making it worse. She bent and picked up the fallen bits of metal, setting them on the edge of the sink, and turned the tap on to splash her face. After wiggling the bun at the back of her head in an attempt to loosen it a bit, she pinned her cap on again.

It was stress. She was aware of that. The date of her wedding felt as if it were looming on the horizon like a thunderstorm. Her father had a new detail to talk over every dinner, and Donat’s hands and good night kisses grew more demanding. No matter how she tried to defuse his advances by making sure that someone was with them, he seemed to manage catching her alone. Her father was meant to leave for France on business in less than a month, and her skin goosepimpled unpleasantly at the thought of Donat coming around while she was left to the house on her own. 

Though Nurse Mills hadn’t attempted anything so blatant since the Luminal incident the week before, the head nurse’s increasingly invasive observation added to Belle’s stress, and the way it was all piling up in her head was wearing on her usually slow temper. Her sleepless Sunday shift the night before had surely not been helpful, either. She’d had to walk away from Lieutenant Hargreaves before she snapped at him over a bit of his harmless foolishness, which was how she ended up in the washroom.

At the moment, Belle might have been tempted to drop everything that pulled her in different directions and just… run away. Make her life simple. She had lovely chunk of savings socked away. She could find a nice place to board, apply to the medical college she wanted, and everyone else’s opinions be damned.

But no. Tempted, perhaps, but not conquered by it. She looked in the mirror, tucked a wisp of hair beneath the edge of her cap, and headed back to the ward. Lunch would come out soon. She needed to sit with Rummond for a little while, no matter what Nurse Mills thought of it. Judging by the patterns she’d witnessed over the last months, he appeared to be headed for another downswing. She was attempting to stave it off, despite knowing how futile that was.

Upon her return, she was annoyed to find that Nurse Mills haunted the ward. The woman directed a sharp smile at her, having taken up a station in the chair where Belle spent her night shifts, a stack of paperwork attached to a clipboard on the chair arm. The bearing in her posture, the head nurse may as well have been occupying a throne. Belle turned away without returning the smile, intent on ignoring her.

She was followed close behind by the trolley bringing lunch up from the kitchen, so she made her way right to Rummond’s bedside. “Do you think you can eat a bit?” she asked, watching as he shuffled and re-shuffled his playing cards.

He’d taken the cards out for solitaire, but hadn’t yet gotten his thoughts in order enough to begin. He looked up and shook his head, then forced his eyes down again. “I’m not hungry.” 

Belle sighed. It was going to be another of those days. She took his tray from Quinn, unwilling to risk the orderly jabbing at her patient, and set it on the bedside table before sitting down, herself.

Rummond frowned down at the five of clubs that slid from among the rest, and placed it back into the deck, glancing over at his lunch tray. It appeared to be beef stew, with small, round dumplings peeking through the heavy broth. He wasn’t ordinarily averse to the soups and stews that the cook had begun adding to the rotation more often, but the smell of it wafted his way, and he felt ill. 

“You didn’t eat yesterday. Just a few bites?” Nurse French asked of him. 

“I don’t want it.” He flicked his eyes up to her face and away again. 

Belle leaned in a little, stopping when he grew tense. “Please?”

“I _can’t_ ,” he said, jaw clenched. He was weary of this back-and-forth over food. “If I _could_ get it down, it would only come right back up. We’ve discussed this.”

“And we’ve discussed what will happen if you stop eating, as well,” Belle told him, matching his tone, and immediately wished she’d spoken with more patience. Perhaps she should have handed her beds off to someone else for the afternoon, and occupied herself outside of the ward until her bad mood had passed.

He was quiet and still for so long that she was on the verge of apologizing, when he spoke again.

“Why do you do this?” he asked, looking up at her with narrowed eyes. His voice was too even, too devoid of emotion, and she could practically feel him laying new bricks in the wall they’d managed to break pieces from. “Why, every day, do you persist with it?”

“Because I want you to get better. I want you to be healthy,” Belle told him. “Rummond, your mind is only a part of what needs to be heal-”

“Because you pity me,” he interrupted at a mutter. His brow drew in discomfort at confronting her over it.

 _“What?”_ she burst, giving him an incredulous look. Where had _that_ come from?

“You come around to sit, poke food at me, pull talk out of me - and I know you do it because you feel sorry for the poor, pathetic, broken pilot,” Rummond sneered and shook his head. “I neither want nor need your pity.”

“... _That’s_ what you think? That I pity you?” She stared at him. 

Rummond huffed a breath through his nose. “There’s nothing else it could be.”

“Nothing else, indeed? Rummond!” Belle gasped in exasperation, jumping to her feet. She couldn’t understand what brought this on. “I don’t know where you’re getting this, but-”

He gaped at her in return. She _still_ denied it, after he’d heard it straight from her mouth. Twice. “I’ve heard you!”

“I don’t know what you think you heard. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I _do_ hear things, don’t I, then? Convenient.” Rummond bristled further, venom he hadn’t realized was there bleeding into his words. His hands shook, and he held them tight around the cards, the edges stinging the undersides of his fingers. “‘Poor man, poor thing,’” he imitated. “But I supposed I do belong in an asylum, after all, eh?”

“You are-” She closed her eyes for a second, struggling to tamp down her anger, and tried to make sure that her voice wasn’t raised before she spoke again. “You are _so_ mired in pain and self-hatred, you can’t even consider that _I want to help you_. You were opening yourself to healing - I could see it!”

He scoffed, turning his face away.

“You can’t heal and push everyone away at the same time,” she explained, half pleading. “It doesn’t work like that. That isn’t getting better.”

He shook his head again, though the gesture wasn’t directed at her this time. “Then why even try?”

Belle looked down at him - at the top of his head, since the stubborn, utterly vexatious man was refusing to look up at her - and gave a short growl of frustration. She would have liked to shake him, and when her hands itched to _actually_ do it, she knew that she needed to walk away. 

“You are an infuriating man. Absolutely _impossible_ , and- and- infuriating!” she said, flustered out of her own vocabulary by him.

“I want assigned to someone else,” he told her suddenly, the request terse and cold, as if he were ending the conversation with the completion of his wall.

She should have stepped away, should have held her tongue until she was off the ward and could safely vent her anger in another direction, anywhere but toward a patient. Anywhere but at _him_. 

Self-control in the midst of high emotion had never been her strong suit.

“Fine,” Belle snapped. “I can do it. Easily. You won’t have to be bothered with me again.” She turned on her heel, finally making herself go.

He tossed the cards down, and the slick paper slid, half the deck skidding off the side of his bunk. He had come here for treatment, such as it was, and he would stick solely to that. He would keep his mouth shut. He would keep to himself, and he would hope that he could be repaired to any degree. It was all he could do. It was better that way.

He’d had more sense than to grow attached. To her, to anyone. He really had. Sooner or later, everyone saw him for what he was, and he was left with another empty space in him just their shape. Why not jump to the inevitable ending?

Rummond shifted his eyes to watch sidelong as she slammed the door open, walking off the ward.


	31. To Frustrate Severer Than Despair

Two days, and he saw not a sign of her. Nurse Halloran had taken over her beds, though when he asked, she didn’t know why her duties had changed. Nurse Nolan had walked close enough for him to catch her attention, and when he asked about Nurse French, her behavior turned odd and she claimed no knowledge. He needed to ask _someone_ who could tell him, needed to know for certain.

Rummond hoped desperately for her to come back. He would apologize for everything, and he would never say a cross word to her again, if she would only come back.

He lay on his bunk, unable to concentrate enough to do anything save let his thoughts jab at him with their sharp edges. Late in the evening on Friday, an irritated throat clearing sounded from behind him. He turned his head, and followed it by quickly sitting up. Nurse Mills.

“I hear you’ve been inquiring after Nurse French?” the head nurse asked, bringing her hands up to settle them on her hips. “And after the discussion we had, you and I.”

“I only-” He frowned, hating the intimidation she invoked. “Would you happen to know where she is? Is she all right? That- that’s all I want to know.”

“Oh,” Nurse Mills said so casually that one might have thought the information she followed with was of no consequence. “She was reassigned. To the general ward, I believe. Nurse French put in a request on Monday afternoon. She was _quite_ upset over something.”

“Rea- a- assigned…” The air in his lungs left him in one exhale. The general ward. Of course. Where she could do her job without being sniped at or endangered. Where she wouldn’t have to look at him. 

“Yes. I believe the idea is to finish her time at the hospital there.” There was a false sweetness to Nurse Mills’ voice when she continued, at odds with the hard shine of her eyes as she relished being the one to inform him. “She’ll be leaving us in just a few months. She can’t raise a family and continue to split those responsibilities with her work, after all. Is there anything else?”

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head.

Satisfied that she’d driven in a knife, the head nurse walked away.

He felt ashamed of how selfish he was in wishing Nurse French to come back, knowing she was surely happier away from his presence. It was a _good_ thing, Rummond told himself. He couldn’t blame her an inch. But he had chased her away from the ward she’d worked on for so long - the place she’d chosen. If anyone should leave, it should be him. 

He laid down again and curled into himself, curling around the hurt in his chest. He’d do it when he could get up again; he would leave the hospital, go somewhere else, if he had to, and she would have her ward back. When he could pull himself from his bunk, he would do just that. As soon as.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

Graham was the first to notice that, atop being unable to eat or sleep, Captain Gold had stopped talking. The Captain had never been what one could call talkative. Not around most, though Graham knew that he spoke with Belle more than anyone else. He’d never seen him ignore Lieutenant Hargreaves when the younger man attempted a conversation, though, and there he stood during his afternoon break, watching as the Captain gave a rapidly discouraging Lieutenant the cold shoulder.

“There’s a bit that goes on and on about pearls. Have you gotten there, yet?” Hargreaves motioned toward the book on Captain Gold’s bedside table, where it had sat unmoved for a solid four days. “Maybe not. You’d know it, if you read it. Can’t miss it,” he said, frowning a bit.

The Captain only turned over, settling with his back to Lieutenant Hargreaves.

Graham worried over Captain Gold and Belle, both, but at least Belle was taking care of herself. Captain Gold appeared to be withdrawing further and further. According to Archie, their last couple of sessions were met with utter silence on his patient’s side. Graham had escorted him back and forth, the Captain seeming little more than a slow-moving spectre next to him.

Nurse Halloran approached Captain Gold’s bed from the side he faced. Graham shook his head. Ariel Halloran was a sweet girl, but very early in hands-on training. Ruby often followed after her rounds to ensure that everything had been done properly, and that everyone who required medication had actually received it.

“How are you feeling today, Captain Gold?” she chirped, looking at him expectantly. When he didn’t respond, she began fussing with things around him. She tucked his blankets around the end of his mattress. “Better, I hope. There’s chicken and roasted potatoes for dinner today, but Mr. Humbert says he’s going to try to track some soup down for you. Won’t that be nice? Would you eat a little soup?”

The small, red-haired nurse clattered on. Rummond closed his eyes in annoyance, but he didn’t say anything to stop her.

She reached for his pillow, closing her fingers around the edge. “Here, why don’t we fluff your pillow and turn it, and I’m sure you-”

Rummond reached up, pulling at his pillow to yank it from her grasp, and gave her a glare.

“Oh. All right, then.” She stepped back, startled. The effect didn’t last long, however, and she began straightening the things on his table. She picked up a piece of candy, the ends of its wrapper so shredded that the twists barely held it closed. The seam had opened a sliver, revealing the red and white stripe of a bit of peppermint. “This’ll draw ants,” she murmured. “I keep saying, the beds should have some manner of rubbish bin next to each.”

Without warning, Rummond’s hand darted out, and he snatched the candy from her. It was an effort to speak, let alone move, and it sapped what little energy he could summon up, but he croaked, “ _Go away_ ,” through his teeth.

Nurse Halloran backed away, looking stung, and she hurried quickly off.

He held the peppermint in his hand, closed in curled fingers, until he could reach over to place it back on the table. Everything took so much _effort_ \- every move, every word - and there was nothing to make it feel worth the struggle. He wasn’t sure that he hadn’t become more miserable than before he admitted himself. The psychologist dredging up old heartaches to join the new, trading one bed to camp out in for another, meeting someone he could-

Rummond clenched his eyes shut so hard that it made his temples hurt. Someone he could what? Befriend? Trust?

She was gone. He’d chased her away, and there was no use in thinking about her. It didn’t help the misery any, but at least this way, he didn’t have to see her smiling at him and feel her touching him every day, all while knowing how she would loathe him just as much as everyone else. It was only a matter of time. No one could care for him; he’d had that proven to him time and again, mercilessly over the last forty-four years, had his face rubbed in it like a dog who ruined the carpet. Not even his son could love him like this, the thing he’d become.

He wanted to open the drawer that sat just a foot and a half from his face, wanted to take the embroidered napkin. Wanted to hold something of hers close. There was so much crowding his mind, and she was a piece of it, though not the whole. Now and then, something would clarify and come to the fore to inflict pain before trading places with another thought or memory.

But the small place of comfort he had allowed himself to make - the one with her smile and her hands and the way it felt when she sat next to him - that place had gone with her. Something like the napkin she’d brought the lavender cookies to him in, that physical manifestation, would only be a dim impression of that feeling. It was more than nothing, though. He looked at the dulled metal handle, attempting to will himself to reach out and open it. 

He could try again later.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

Captain Gold had already been headed for a handful of bad days, Graham knew. Belle had warned him of as much more than a week ago. The argument hadn’t caused it, nor had Belle’s reassignment, but he couldn’t help thinking that the situation hadn’t been improved by it, either.

He kept as sharp an eye on the Captain as he could, between his duties. While he hadn’t personally seen his patient eat, Nurse Halloran assured him that she had noticed a few bites missing from some of his meals. Graham hoped that she was right; Belle had been the only one who could coax him into eating when he became reluctant about it. Everyone else, he ignored or glowered at until they were unnerved into abandoning their attempts.

The Tuesday following Belle’s first week away from the east wing, Graham walked onto the ward to find Captain Gold in precisely the same position he’d lain in since lunchtime the day before. He remembered the way the blankets rucked up on the side of the bed, the bunching of the covers around one of his feet. Handing a roll of gauze off to Nurse Boyd, who had sent him after it virtually the second he clocked in, he went over to check.

“Captain?” he asked, resting a hand on his patient’s shoulder. The man didn’t move, but his eyes were open. He blinked, to Graham’s relief, though slowly. “Captain Gold,” Graham said again, and gave him a gentle shake. Nothing.

Graham squatted down, watching him for a moment. “You’ve an appointment with Dr. Hopper today,” he said, but Captain Gold didn’t acknowledge the statement. He folded back the covers and patted the Captain behind the shoulder. “Why don’t we sit up?”

When there was no more than another blink, Graham frowned and spoke more quietly. “Do you need the washroom? Will you give me an answer for that, at least?”

It took a few seconds, but Captain Gold shook his head just enough that Graham could tell it. He pulled the blankets back up, over his patient’s shoulder, and stood. The Captain’s breakfast tray sat on the bedside table, untouched. He went to find Nurse Halloran.

“Did Captain Gold have any dinner last night? Could you tell?” he asked when he found her coming from the supply closet, hands full of her own supplies. She had that going for her - a willingness to fetch her own needs.

“I think he might have.” She nodded, shifting her arm to catch a wide roll of gauze that attempted an escape.

Graham knew full well he hadn’t. He followed her back in the direction of the ward. “But you can’t be certain.”

“Well, no…” She looked up at him, pulling a doubtful expression.

“Are you sure he’s been eating bits of his meals at all?” he asked, pushing the door open ahead of her.

“I- well-” She looked over at the Captain, twisting her mouth to one side. “I thought he _might_ have been. I can’t be _perfectly_ sure what the trays look like between coming out and being picked up.”

It would be stepping too far out of his place to lecture a nurse on habits of keeping a closer eye on patients who weren’t eating, but God, did he badly want to. Graham scrubbed a hand down his face and turned to go for Archie. It was Captain Gold’s hour, anyway. Bringing Archie out to him instead of the other way around wouldn’t hurt.

“Captain Gold is worse off?” Dr. Hopper asked with dismay upon opening the door. He knew upon seeing Graham’s face that something was amiss. His patient should have been on the sofa in his office ten minutes ago. 

The everyday low level of noise and chatter softened when Dr. Hopper went in. He rarely had reason to show his face on the ward, making the occasion unusual enough to draw attention.

Graham stood back, standing behind Archie as the doctor squatted down where he’d been earlier, so that he could see Captain Gold’s face.

Archie had heard about Nurse French’s reassignment. He might not participate in hospital gossip, strictly speaking, but he knew damn well what was happening. 

“He’s been getting steadily worse,” Graham said quietly, crossing his arms over his chest. “I was under the impression he’d been eating a bit here and there, but…” He glanced over to Nurse Halloran, where she nervously attempted to make conversation with Commander Strand. “Apparently not. He’s been like this since around noon yesterday.”

“Captain Gold? You can hear me, can’t you?” Dr. Hopper rested a hand on the Captain’s upper arm, and his patient’s eyes shifted to look at him.

“Last I saw him take in with my own eyes, he had a cup of tea on Saturday. It didn’t stay down,” Graham told the doctor.

“So it isn’t voluntary starvation. Or, not wholly…” Dr. Hopper turned enough to look up at him. “Have you told Dr. Whale?”

Graham shook his head. “I know what he’ll want to do.”

“It’s a depressive episode. Melancholia,” Dr. Hopper sighed, standing, and gestured for Graham to follow him as he stepped away. “It was likely coming on, anyway, but Nurse French leaving the ward might have triggered it. There isn’t much to be done. Keep a close watch on him. If he continues refusing food… Well.” He gave the orderly a meaningful look.

The doctor reached up, touching Graham’s worry-crossed arm, and gave it a squeeze before stepping back to Captain Gold’s bedside. He bent to look him in the eye, patting his shoulder, and gave him what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “I hope that you feel better soon, Captain. I look forward to seeing you in my office again.”

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

Dark smudges beneath Captain Gold’s eyes grew heavier each day, testifying to lack of food and sleep. Graham once resorted to tempting him with bits of candy, as he’d seen Belle do, but the result was not the same. If anything, it seemed only to make his patient draw further inward; the Captain had screwed his eyes shut and turned his face in to his pillow when the orderly tried.

Graham began to worry that he would come in and find that his patient had died in the night. Every evening before he left for home, he asked that day’s night shift nurse to check on Captain Gold often, to do more than a walk-by, to make sure that he still breathed. And he warred with himself over reporting the Captain’s condition to Dr. Whale, so that he would be force fed. He’d been witness to it, and knew that it was a terrible thing to experience, but would it not be better than allowing his patient to starve himself to death?

He went in to check on Captain Gold during his midday break on Thursday, and found Regina walking the ward. She turned at the sound of the door sweeping open, giving him a broad grin. Graham tried his best not to harbor such an absolute hatred of her, but his best wasn’t quite good enough, in this case. The head nurse would never stop making his skin crawl.

The Captain had a heavy shadow of stubble grown on his face. Before the last week and a half, Graham had never seen him anything less than immaculately shaven. He would fix that, he decided. His break was long enough.

Graham filled a small basin half full of hot water and let a hand towel soak in it, draping a dry one over his shoulder before going back in, taking one of the wooden chairs that found most of their use on Sundays with him as he went. He found the Captain’s toiletry bag on the shelf beneath his bedside table, and his shaving things inside. Captain Gold lay with his eyes open. There were tears pooled between the corner of his eye and the bridge of his nose, with no movement to allow them to fall, and a damp place on the white pillow slip. Using the dry cloth, Graham dabbed the tears away, making note to change his patient’s bed linens.

Captain Gold’s breathing was shallow. Graham pulled the side of the blankets up and brought his patient’s hand out, curling his fingers around the Captain’s wrist with his middle and forefinger pressed just below the base of his patient’s thumb. He felt a pulse there, even but thready, and he frowned at how weak the man was.

“Captain?” he asked. “Can you let me know that you hear me?”

When he received no acknowledgment, he took his patient’s index finger, pressing his thumbnail against the Captain’s nail, near the cuticle. Captain Gold flinched a little around his eyes, and Graham tucked his hand away beneath the covers again. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I had to check.”

“I’m going to shave you,” Graham said, standing from the chair. “If you don’t want me to, you’re more than welcome to tell me. Or stop me otherwise.” It would mean the other man speaking or moving - either of which would be cause for minor celebration. But the Captain simply looked through him with unfocused eyes.

“All right. I’m going to turn you onto your back,” Graham told him, giving him warning before touching him further.

He slipped one hand beneath the shoulder that rested against the bed, pulling it toward him as he gently pushed the other away, then turned Captain Gold’s hips so that he lay flat. He fixed the blankets and adjusted the pillow, so that the Captain’s head tilted back a bit. Graham sat again, arranging everything next to his patient’s legs on the bed, within reach. After wringing the cloth that had been sitting in the water, he placed it over Captain Gold’s lower face. Making sure that there was a disk of soap in the shaving cup, he dampened the brush and began to work up a foam.

“I’ve a good bit of experience in this,” he assured Captain Gold as he took away the wet cloth. “I have quite the record of no nicks or cuts, and I don’t intend on ruining it now.”

Graham brushed heavy lather over the Captain’s stubble. “I saw Belle this morning,” he said gently. “She’s been so busy that I-”

Captain Gold’s eyes closed, his jaw clenching. He understood that, then.

“All right. We don’t have to talk about her.” He didn’t understand what had happened there. It had seemed to be such a friendship growing between the two of them. ‘Friendship,’ such as it was; he didn’t dare insinuate it as anything more. Not as things were. 

Graham worked carefully with his patient’s thin cheeks, using his hands at the jawline and cheekbones to make the skin taut, to shave clean and avoid hurting him. “There you go,” he murmured as he cleaned bits of leftover soap away from Captain Gold’s skin. “Perhaps you’ll feel like doing it for yourself next time?”

He cleaned up, rinsing the brush and putting it aside to dry. “I’m going to leave you on your back, for now. Too long on one side, and you’ll cause yourself injury.” He looked down at his patient and sighed, concerned about leaving him. His break was nearly over, though. “I’ll be looking in on you,” he promised, taking the chair with him when he went.

No sooner had Humbert left the ward, than Nurse Mills made her way around to Rummond’s bunk. She leered down at him for a moment before placing a hand on the headboard to loom over, her fingers wrapped around the metal.

“Orderlies like Mr. Humbert, who could ostensibly be doing something useful, and _you’ve_ got him looking after you like an infant.” The head nurse laughed - a slow, malevolent sound - and reached to hold his chin between her thumb and forefinger. She spoke to him with her lip curled into a sneer. “You pathetic thing. Shriveling up like a salted slug, without Nurse French to prop you up in bed. I imagine she counts her blessings in being rid of you.”

She let go of him with a flick of her hand, making his head jerk with the force of it. He could hear her shoes click against the tile as she walked away.

The ache in his chest sharpened with the hot sting behind his eyes, and he could stop neither. His head was splitting, but it had been for days. He didn’t think he could move if he wanted to - his limbs felt as limp as wet washrags. He didn’t want to think about Nurse French. He didn’t want to think about _anything_. He wanted to… to stop. To go away.

With no warning, between one blink and the next, the Austrian boy stood over him with the accusing stare of his uninjured eye. As if that weren’t enough, some of his own boys showed themselves. Kendrick, Collingwood, and Wright sounded as if they sat nearby. They talked and laughed as though they’d just made camp and sat to heat dinner. If he shifted his eyes left, he could see them, bloodied and pale as death.

He felt himself tremble as he thought as hard as he could, _Leave me alone. Please leave me alone._ Please _leave me alone._


	32. Breaking Point

He’d known it would happen, being reported. Nurse French had once explained in detail. A scare tactic to make him eat. It had worked, once, but now… He couldn’t summon up the energy to care.

This wasn’t like his therapy sessions, holding the discouraged option of being skipped or delayed. Humbert and Gardner had approached his bunk after yet another uneaten lunch, folding his blankets back. Humbert, concerned as always with slippers, got them onto him before he was pulled to his feet.

“Gently,” Humbert growled low to the other orderly. “There’s no need for that.”

Gardner gave a derisive snort, but held his hand away from Rummond, allowing Humbert to take over as he was guided from the ward. He hadn’t thought himself capable of walking, but with the orderly’s hand curled around his upper arm in support and the threat of Gardner at his back, his path was slowly made by borderline force to the south wing.

The way felt miles long, and his body ached by the time Humbert opened the door to usher him into a rearranged examination room. Dr. Whale waited inside, along with another pair of orderlies - Quinn and a man of similar size, whom he’d never seen on the east ward.

“Captain Gold,” the doctor greeted him, and the man’s tone was almost scolding. “We have a trial to pass today. If you remain compliant, we’ll have it done in no time.”

Dr. Whale looked at him as if he expected a reply, and when he received none, he pressed his lips together. He brought a cloth mask up from where it lay half-undone against the front of his crisp, white surgeon’s gown, and covered his mouth and nose with it. The orderly that Rummond didn’t recognize helped to tie it over the back of the cap covering the doctor’s hair.

“Get him up on the table,” the doctor said, only slightly muffled. He turned to prepare something on a tray sitting to one side of the metal table that took the center of the brightly-lit room. 

Quinn held a stack of folded bedsheets, and he let them thump onto the end of the table, the sound echoing off the tile and steel surrounding them. Rummond jumped at the sudden noise, and Humbert patted him between the shoulderblades.

The orderly guided him to turn his back to the table, then held him more firmly beneath his arm to help him sit upon the edge. “Lie down,” Humbert told him with a nod, appearing a bit upset, himself, as he reached to bring his legs up, as well.

With Humbert on his left and Gardner on his right side, they opened one of the bedsheets between them and began to bind him in it. They tilted Rummond back and forth bodily, pausing with each wrap around to pull the sheet snug. He lay limp, allowing it. The first sheet wrapped him tightly from feet to waist, with his arms bound to his sides, and the second was used to wrap to his shoulders. Humbert folded the top edge in, away from his neck, when they’d done.

“All right, hold him,” Dr. Whale ordered, switching on an examination lamp bright enough to dazzle Rummond’s eyes.

Quinn’s hands locked like vices around his ankles to pin his feet to the table, making his left leg ache. Gardner and the stranger took opposing sides, each holding down an arm and placing the other hand on either of his hips. It was Humbert who stood at the top of the table, and kinder hands braced Rummond’s head to keep him still and tilted back. It did very little to stem the fear building in him.

“I’m sorry, Captain Gold,” Humbert offered softly.

The doctor’s brow drew in an unseen frown. “Quiet, Mr. Humbert,” he said, and pulled the lamp’s arm to bring the bulb closer still. With a hand on Rummond’s chin, Dr. Whale opened his jaw, examining his mouth and throat. He then palpated the outside of Rummond’s neck, nodding before he turned to take something from the nearby instrument tray.

Dr. Whale held up a small device with a glass pipette on its end, bringing it toward Rummond’s nose. On instinct, he tried to twist his head. “Hold him _still_ , orderly,” the doctor grumbled, and Humbert’s hands held him more firmly.

The pipette was placed into one nostril and then the other, spraying something that smelled sharp and bright, and after an instant, it _burned_. It burned its way up his nose and down the back of his throat, and he couldn’t help the groan that eked from him.

“A mixture of antiseptic and cocaine anaesthetic. Minimizes discomfort,” the doctor explained. He glanced down the table at the orderlies. “Now, keep him still.”

The hands on Rummond tightened, and he grimaced as Quinn made a pain shoot up his leg.

The doctor took a slender, coiled tube of red rubber, spraying the same mixture on it before unrolling it, and ran a piece of gauze down its length. “If you swallow as it goes down, it will ease the process,” he said, and approached Rummond with the plain end of the tube.

Rummond’s breath quickened as it was fed into the left side of his nose. He expected to gag, and his body startled as the tube was pushed down, but his throat was mostly numb. He only felt the invasive snaking of it that was more disturbing than painful. He could feel it, though, as the tube worked its way to his stomach. His eyes teared, hands opening and closing convulsively where they were bound and held.

“Captain Gold, calm down,” Humbert said quietly, and it wasn’t until then that he realized he was near hyperventilating. “It won’t be such an ordeal, if you calm down.” And the orderly closed his eyes for a moment as Rummond looked up at him, appearing as if he felt ill. Humbert shook his head and opened his eyes again.

The tube stopped its descent, and the anaesthetic at last stopped burning. Dr. Whale took a pitcher from the instrument table and held the funnel up, beginning to pour what Rummond could only tell was milk by sight into the tube. It went in at an agonizingly slow stream.

It was _cold_ , all the way down. So cold that it hurt. The cold spread through his sinuses and inner ear, suffusing his throat. He felt the wave of it move down into his stomach as the milk found the end of the feeding tube, where it gathered and grew all the more intense.

The doctor would overfill him, Rummond thought. He would drown, and there was nothing he could do to stop it, with no way to refuse the milk he was being fed. Panic flooded him. Cold sweat broke out on his face, and his chest and back began to _hurt_ with the force of his heartbeat, and he looked wildly up at Humbert for help. The room seemed to swim and the lights to grow brighter.

“Captain,” Humbert said quickly, frowning. “Be still. You can’t-”

“Stop!” Dr. Whale snapped at Rummond, stopping mid-pour. With marginally more patience, the doctor told him, “You’ll choke yourself. Stop moving.”

Rummond whimpered in distress, but the sound couldn’t make it out of his throat around the intrusion. He had to fight with himself against struggling.

Just as he thought he might try to thrash his way free, the doctor emptied the last of the milk from its pitcher. A few moments later, he began pulling the tube from Rummond’s body. It hurt this time, his throat spasming around it as it was withdrawn. The anaesthetic wearing off, he sputtered and choked when it _finally_ left him, and the orderlies let go.

He wanted to curl up, to hide himself, but they weren’t finished. He remembered what Nurse French told him. Someone would watch him for a while, now.

“Mr. Humbert, you’ll stay and observe the patient?” Dr. Whale said, less a request and more of an order. “An hour will do.”

“Yes, sir,” Humbert responded over his head.

Dr. Whale pulled the mask from his face. He and the other orderlies filed out, leaving Rummond bound in bedsheets and Humbert standing at the head of the table.

The door clicked closed. “Are you all right, Captain?” the orderly asked, but Rummond closed his eyes, shutting him out.

The milk sat in his stomach, feeling as if the chill of it on his insides would never fade. He shivered, the reflex mild, at first, but growing worse the longer he lay there. The surface they had him on was unhelpful, the cold of the metal creeping up through the sheets.

The orderly took a blanket from the cupboard near the door, draping it over and tucking it around him. It was a nice gesture, but it didn’t help.

Humbert took a chair and sat next to the table where Rummond was bound, hands clasped together to hang between his knees, his head bowed. “There’s nothing else I knew to do,” he apologized, looking up to see his patient, but Rummond turned his face away. “Even Belle would’ve given in to reporting it by now. I’m sorry, Captain.”

They sat the full hour, time marked by the occasional _click_ of the cover of the small watch that Humbert kept in his uniform pocket.

“Let’s get you back to the ward, then,” the orderly said, folding the blanket over the back of his chair. His hands were careful as he unwound the sheets from around Rummond, dropping them to the side to be picked up later.

Rummond felt the slow release of the pressure that the sheets held him with. He made a sound of discomfort as Humbert pulled the edge of the very last layer from under him, his hands having no more barrier between skin and metal.

“Can you sit up?” Humbert asked, sliding a hand beneath his shoulder to encourage him.

He worked to push himself upright, but it was the orderly who did much of the task. His head reeling, Rummond felt no stronger for having sustenance poured into him. He moved his legs to let them hang off the edge, and Humbert helped with that, as well. He could feel the quart of milk slosh dangerously, and for a moment thought it might come back up, anyway.

“Do you think you can walk back?” Humbert allowed him a while to get his bearings. The trip out was trying enough, but now… “I can get a wheelchair, if need be?”

“No wheelchair,” Rummond said, his voice hoarse, as he shrugged the orderly off. His throat was raw. The more the doctor’s spray wore off, the more scraped everything from the inside of his nose, all the way down felt. Simply breathing irritated it. 

He shivered, and the orderly reached back for the blanket, bringing it around his shoulders. The sooner he got back to the ward, the sooner Humbert would leave him alone. He squirmed, scooting himself off the edge, and was glad when he landed on his feet without much of a wobble. The orderly wrapped a hand around his upper arm to steady him.

Rummond pulled his arm away more insistently this time. “Get your hands off me,” he rasped. Weak already and dizziness compounding it, he found himself listing to one side. He had to catch himself with a hand against the table. Disagreeable as he currently found it, he would have to allow Humbert to help him.

The way back to the ward was long and slow; he thought he might have gotten there more quickly by crawling. The orderly didn’t hurry him, he had to give the boy that much. He just walked patiently alongside, a hand cupped around Rummond’s arm to ensure his state of remaining upright.

He kept his eyes downcast when they walked onto the ward, knowing how heads turned toward him as Humbert guided him to his bunk.

Rummond felt as though he were freezing from the inside, out, as he climbed between the covers that the orderly held open for him, letting the slippers fall off his feet. He dropped into the bed, unable to hold himself up any longer. Turning onto his side, he made himself small, trying to get warm.

“You could have left it,” he murmured as the orderly arranged his blankets. 

Humbert pushed his patient’s slippers over near the bedside table with an nudge of his foot. “Left it?”

“Me. Could’ve let me be.” It would have been better for everyone.

“No, now. I couldn’t do that.”

Frowning, Rummond shivered. It didn’t seem as if he would ever be able to stop. “You could have let me go. Wouldn’t’ve mattered.” His words began to run together with exhaustion, and his teeth clicked as a stronger shudder went through him.

“Go?” Graham asked, and he understood as soon as he repeated the word. He pulled the blanket high against Captain Gold’s neck, and squatted down to speak quietly to him. “No. No, Captain, I couldn’t. I know if feels that way now, but it _would_ matter, and very much, too.”

Lies. People lied, hurt, went away. There was no one he could trust - not anymore. There was no one to care if he simply stopped existing. He lost the energy and will to say so, though. Rummond closed his eyes, and after a few minutes, he heard the orderly leave him. He felt like a thin shell of flesh and bone wrapped around the ache that had driven through him. The heaviness of it made it difficult to draw breath.

He’d been square-shouldered, once. Staunch, if small. He’d had steel in his backbone and people under his command. He’d had a family and a home. An anchor in the world. And now…

Now he was pathetic. Limp and spineless, and people either loathed or pitied him, but they no longer looked on him as if he were a human being. He was at the mercy of those people, and he didn’t like the feeling. Once, he’d managed to scramble from beneath his father’s thumb, only to now find himself beneath someone else’s.

The next morning, he simply pulled the covers over his head and did his best to ignore the happy sounds of family and friends streaming in. Aside from Humbert occasionally dropping by to check on him, he was left alone. The orderly made sure that he had a bedpan and urinal bottle nearby, just in case. Despite his ‘meal,’ he’d had a use for neither.

Rummond had almost allowed himself to believe that the first feeding they’d inflicted might be the only one, when no one showed up to take him as dinner trays came out. It was halfway through the meal when Humbert and Quinn, this time, came in with him in their sights.

He shrank back, feeling a phantom chill.

“It won’t be so bad as the first time,” Graham told him, feeling awful for claiming so when he knew better. If he could only help Captain Gold through this episode, get him to a point where he could eat.

Rummond walked with Humbert’s hand on his arm again, to the south wing, _again_. The room felt colder, and the orderlies did, as well. The instant he stepped in, he felt like retreating into a corner. 

“I don’t want this…” he whispered, looking to Humbert with imploring eyes. The orderly appeared shamefaced, but did nothing.

Gardner had to near drag him to the table, and Dr. Whale was clearly impatient with him by the time he submitted and the procedure began. He was unsure whether it was the doctor’s rougher handling or the condition his throat was already in, but a second go ‘round _hurt_ , and continued hurting long afterward. He closed his eyes so that he didn’t have to stare up at Humbert, and hoped that they were all preoccupied enough not to have seen the tears running back down his temples as the doctor began threading the tube in.

A wheelchair was necessary, this time, as was help in getting Captain Gold into it from the table and back into his bed. Graham worried that he didn’t fight it. He made an attempt at conversation as he got his patient re-settled, but the Captain would have none of it. Captain Gold’s expression remained blank and impassive as it had fallen during the hour’s wait. Graham pulled the blankets around him and tried to justify it to himself with the fact that the Captain had a full stomach, at the very least.

It was Monday evening when Humbert returned wearing the same grim expression, Gardner following close behind him.

“No…” Rummond groaned, trying to hold onto his blankets as Humbert took them from him. He jerked the blanket out of the orderly’s hands, but he relented. 

His third trip out to the south wing felt much like what he had imagined the walk to his execution might have felt like. A silent, forced and guarded walk with something terrible awaiting him at the end of it. The nearer he got to the room, the more difficult it was to breathe. 

It was the _click_ of the door closing behind him that did it. The sound snapped something in him, setting his heart hammering, and he backed away. “I can’t do it,” he gasped, eyes darting between the other men in the room ahead of him.

“Captain Gold. Up on the table,” Dr. Whale ordered, his tone brusque, and he brought his surgical mask up.

Humbert moved toward him. “Captain-” the orderly began, but Rummond stepped back before the other man could reach for him. He couldn’t do this again. He wouldn’t.

He collided with Quinn, who grabbed him, and he tried to pull away. Gardner strode quickly over to help, taking hold of his other arm, and Rummond dropped his weight to try and wrench himself away.

“Don’t hurt him!” Humbert warned, his expression turning angry.

Dr. Whale let his mask fall flat to the front of his gown. “I don’t believe this is going to be an adequate remedy,” he said, frowning. “A patient so determined to starve himself is at too high a risk. Force feeding is not a permanent solution.”

Humbert looked at the doctor, anger fleeing his face in favor of something sharper. “That isn’t necessary,” he argued. “He’ll be fine. It can be done at half-consciousness. He doesn’t-”

“I didn’t ask for an opinion, orderly.” The doctor’s tone was deceptively mild, but it was clear that he spoke down to Humbert. He addressed the orderlies who held Rummond. “Sedate him. Take him to confinement for the night, let him calm down.”

Rummond felt an instant of relief when Quinn let go of him. He scrambled back to his feet with the leverage of Gardner’s hold, and began to attempt prying the man’s hands off of him. His thoughts spun in tight circles. He would get away and hide, leave the hospital in the morning. All he had to do was get out of the room. He could get to the supply closet - no one would find him there. He only had to _get away_.

Humbert headed toward them. “There’s no need for that!”

“Escort Mr. Humbert back to his own ward,” Dr. Whale said, gesturing to the strange orderly who seemed to be his personal attendant. There was a scuffle as Humbert was removed from the room.

Gardner pulled Rummond closer, his back suddenly somehow against the orderly, the other man’s free arm clamping around one of his own arms and his chest. Quinn handed something off to Gardner. A cloth. Rummond fought harder, knowing what it was when the sickly sweet odor reached his nose.

“ _No-_ ” he choked out, sucking in a deep breath as the orderly clapped the cloth over his face. His panic spiked and he fought, lifting his feet off the ground and kicking, his chest hurting with held breath and pounding heart.

Quinn reached for his legs, and he fought all the harder. Kicking past the orderly, his ankle hit the table, and he cried out behind the cloth. Quinn managed to get an arm wrapped around his legs at the calves, but it didn’t stop him from twisting himself and bucking wildly. 

“Damn, but he’s _strong_ ,” Gardner grunted, his arm tightening. 

“It happens, sometimes,” Rummond heard Dr. Whale say. He saw the doctor tossing his gown onto the table, entirely too calm. “Sometimes the body finds a curious strength in madness.”

Eventually, Rummond _had_ to breathe, his body rebelling against his resistance in need of oxygen. Almost right away, his arms and legs stopped obeying him.

“I have business in Reading tomorrow,” he heard the doctor say from somewhere very far away, growing more distant. “Perhaps I can stop in to take care of him in the evening… Poor man shouldn’t have to suffer this way any longer than necessary.”

And he understood what the doctor meant to do.

His vision went narrow at the edges before going gray and soft. He was no longer allowed so much as his panic, even his breathing slowing and evening out against his will.

Rummond felt himself being lowered to the floor, and he could see the doctor standing over him, mouth moving seemingly without emitting sound. He only felt the cold of the tile for a fleeting moment before he could no longer see through the darkening haze, falling away.


	33. Brutality, Futility, Stupidity

Nurse Mills had followed on Belle’s heels when she walked off of the east ward a fortnight before. The head nurse caught up with her at the front desk, stopping her with a hand on her shoulder. Belle shrugged out from under it, turning to look at the woman with a scornful remark ready on her tongue, but her superior beat her to speaking.

“I believe it may be time for you to experience working on other wards of this hospital, Nurse French,” she said, dusting an imaginary speck of something from the younger nurse’s apron strap with a careless flick of her fingers.

Belle gaped at her for a moment before managing a high pitched, “What?” followed by a slightly more composed, “Pardon me?”

“I heard you speak to Captain Gold of your intentions to ask for reassignment.” Nurse Mills looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, attempting to feign innocence in her ‘overhearing.’ “How opportune that the west ward is recently in need of a nurse. I believe you should fit right in.”

“I said what I said in anger,” Belle told her, no less angry now, though with a new reason for it. “I have no intention of requesting to be reassigned.”

The head nurse smiled. “Perhaps a new environment will mend your temperament of late, cut down on upsetting patients.”

“I don’t _need_ to be reassigned. I’m perfectly fine where I am - I asked specifically for the shell shock ward when I took a job here!” Belle’s frustration grew, and fear that the head nurse could and _would_ do this simply out of spite began to overshadow her anger.

“And you seem to have outgrown it. But you won’t be here for much longer anyway, now, will you? Only a few more months before you leave to make a home for your husband, like a good little wife?” 

Nurse Mills didn’t speak of it as if it were a divine calling, as so many women and men alike in Belle’s corner of society did. There was derision in her voice. Belle didn’t appreciate either extreme. She opened her mouth, but actually managed to stop herself. Let Nurse Mills think the wedding meant that she would leave. She could assume anything she liked; that didn’t mean it would happen.

“Nurse Mills, I am heading to cool my head and tend a few afternoon duties, and to perhaps have a bite of lunch. That’s all.”

“The decision has been made.” Nurse Mills downright smirked, and it sent a chill down Belle’s spine. “If you would like to take the rest of the day to accustom yourself to starting on the general ward in the morning, that would be fine. Or you may start your new area immediately, if you like. But I _will not_ find you on the east ward again. Am I being clear?”

“Crystal clear,” Belle acknowledged. 

_No_. She wouldn’t allow this to stand. She _couldn’t_. The first second that she could, she would go back, tell Rummond what had happened. Regret for her part in the argument turned bitter in her mouth.

The following two weeks were made up of more work than Belle had done since her VAD days, and she knew it was Nurse Mills making certain of giving her not a second to spare. The men on the general ward were demanding, and she understood why there had been an open spot on the nursing team, if the patients’ behavior had anything to do with it. For the most part, they were lecherous and indelicate, and an absolute pain to see to. The nurses who had stayed with the ward for years deserved far more lauds than they received.

Belle slapped more hands reaching for or downright grabbing at her bottom in the first few days than she’d had to in her full nursing career previously. There were a couple of patients in her assigned beds that made the days not-terrible, but they seemed the exception to the rule. 

Father Michael Tuck was a cheerful, mostly bald, plump man who was recovering from further amputation of the arm he’d already had taken off. He was an Army chaplain who had been caught in mortar fire a year and a half back, and had been in need of repairs on a badly done cut of the bone. Most of his recovery time, he spent assembling jigsaw puzzles gifted to him by the same priest who visited the east ward on Sundays. Lieutenant William Scarlet, a Derbyshire boy, had been in and out a half dozen times over the last year, according to his chart. He’d lost an eye on the Italian front, and for unknown reasons acquired infection after infection in its socket. Dr. Whale theorized that a piece of shrapnel must have been left behind, and had him scheduled for surgery. Her short conversations with them over the course of the day were a relief in comparison to the others.

Belle tried to sneak off to look in on the east ward, to speak to Rummond, but found herself stopped each time by either Nurse Mills herself, or one of the head nurse’s devoted band of orderlies. It was unsubtle and unsettling, having her every second dictated so. For two weeks, she’d eaten lunch on her feet, when she had any at all. She had seen Graham a single time, and even managed to exchange a smile with him, but Nurse Mills had come to the ward door and barked her name before they’d been able to trade a word.

No matter how early she tried to go in to work, there were orderlies to keep her from going onto the east ward. She kept hoping to catch Graham, or Dr. Hopper, or Ruby before they left in the evening, but by the time she’d done with her ridiculously late tasks - so convenient, that they always managed to come up! - they were gone. Night shifts would give her the chance to step away for a few minutes, she had assumed early on. Nurse Mills, however, claimed that the night shifts were taken, and refused to schedule her any. It was maddening, and she broke into frustrated tears nearly every morning as she dressed for work. She was on the verge of quitting, and only the thought of Rummond and the knowledge that the head nurse would take her doing so as a victory kept her from it.

Nurse Nolan came onto the west ward a little over a week into Belle’s exile, carrying some private message for Nurse Mills. Belle headed her off while the head nurse was smiling over the piece of paper. 

“How is Captain Gold?” she’d whispered, willing the other woman to hurry and answer before they could be caught.

Mary Margaret had given her a wary look and glanced over at Nurse Mills. “Oh, he’s doing just fine!” she said with a quick shake of her head and a bright little smile.

“Is he eating? Sleeping? Do you know?” Belle asked, looking over her shoulder. Nurse Mills still gazed down at her message.

“He hasn’t given Nurse Halloran too much trouble.” Mary Margaret’s smile wavered as her eyes were drawn to the head nurse again. “I really should go…”

Belle reached for Nurse Nolan’s hand to catch her attention, pleading, “Can you tell me _anything_ else?”

“I- I’m sorry. He’s doing fine. That’s all I know. He isn’t one of my beds,” the nurse claimed apologetically, pulling her hand from Belle’s just as Nurse Mills turned a sour expression on them.

Belle stared at the ward door after Mary Margaret disappeared through it. What if, perhaps, he was doing better without her there as a distraction? What if her attempts at helping him had only held him back from healing? She swallowed hard, her heart sinking. And if he was doing better without her there… Perhaps remaining right where she was would be best for everyone.

Lieutenant Scarlet made an easy friend, and in the absence of Graham and Ruby, she found herself in need of friendship. His sense of humor was biting and sarcastic, and she found herself smothering grins despite her dark mood when he set off making cutting observations in regards to the likelihood of one of his bunkmates’ bestial ancestry. It was in response to the other man’s remarks about the framed photograph on his bedside table, but still, highly inappropriate.

“Lieutenant,” she said, the scolding tone she was trying for not quite making it into her voice. She placed herself in front of him to break both men’s concentration. “Who is this?” she asked, gesturing to the picture.

He took the little hinged frame off his table, holding it out for her to take. The young woman was blonde, with large, earnest eyes, and one of the broadest smiles she’d ever seen.

“That’s my Ana,” he said proudly.

“She’s beautiful,” Belle told him, handing the frame back.

“Ain’t she? We’re gonna be married, once I get this lack-of-eyeball all sorted.” He grinned down at the portrait. “What about you? You’ve got a fella.” He nodded at her hand.

She looked down at the engagement ring, and her frown found its way back to her face. “Yes. I do.”

He raised his eyebrows, and an indention formed between them. “Oh, well, _that’s_ excitement for the wedding, then.”

Belle sighed. _That_ wasn’t something she was willing to discuss. Particularly not with someone so near a stranger.

Lieutenant Scarlet set the photo on his table, turning it so that his fiancée faced him. “You’re walking around here in a great sulk about _something_.”

“I do not sulk.”

“You sulk. You frown, you grump about, you get all wobbly-eyed,” he said, tilting his head back and forth as he spoke, and pointed at his uncovered eye before pointing up at her face.

Belle crossed her arms, making sure that Nurse Mills was preoccupied. “I was taken off another ward against my wishes,” she said quietly.

_“And?”_

“I’m worried about a patient. He wasn’t doing well when I saw him last.”

“So, go have a look at him,” the Lieutenant told her, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

“It isn’t that simple. I’m being…” She shook her head. “Punished, apparently. I’m being kept from that part of the hospital.”

He frowned thoughtfully. After a moment, he came up with an ingenious solution. “Sneak.”

“Ah, yes, because I’d never have thought of that.” Belle snorted, dropping her arms to her sides.

“Well, I wasn’t _finished_ , now was I?” He gave her an indignant look up and down. “I’ll come up with something you’ll need to leave the ward to fetch, right? You’ll go get it, and _voilà!”_

“I’ve tried it.” She’d attempted similar ploys at least a half dozen times, and was kept back in favor of sending someone else on each occasion. 

“Oh.” He appeared a bit crestfallen. “I’ll think of something, don’t you worry.”

“Nurse French!” the head nurse snapped from across the ward, clearly expecting her to trot right over.

Belle closed her eyes, gritting her teeth. When she opened them, she gave the Lieutenant a tight smile. “Hm. You keep at it.”

The following Tuesday, the ward was in absolute chaos. Two orderlies and a nurse were out with the catarrh, making it an even more difficult day than usual. Belle took over the absent nurse’s beds, adjacent to her own. Everyone was stretched thin, including the head nurse. To put a cherry on the day, dinner came out more than two hours late; the oven chimney had become blocked, and everything had to be finished in stages on the cooktop. 

She was helping Father Tuck in getting his dinner tray settled on his lap, when she heard a yell from the back of the room. General George Spencer was one of the most troublesome patients on the ward. It wasn’t unusual for him to sear the nurses’ ears when he found some perceived flaw in his day. Today, it seemed to be his dinner.

“If your cook can’t make a proper fucking roast beef, then she shouldn’t be in a kitchen!” the General snarled at someone.

Father Tuck looked down at his meal. “There doesn’t appear to be anything amiss with the roast…” he murmured.

“There isn’t, Father,” Belle sighed, returning a weary smile when he smiled up at her.

General Spencer began pitching himself a mighty fit. “I’m not asking for another plate!” he yelled, and as Belle looked up, the nurse attempting to tend him backed away just in time to get out of the path of the contents of his tray being flung from it. “It should have been right the first time!” 

The tray went flying immediately after, soaring past the nurse to hit the patient two over from his right. There was a yell at another pitch, and half of the ward set off with it. Nurse Mills abandoned her strict propriety and ran over. A general rated concern, apparently.

The wards were each made just the same, and though she’d long ago been desensitized to thrown and breaking dishes, months’ worth of habit made her look back over her shoulder to the place where Rummond’s bed would have been. He’d have startled violently at the sounds. Her insides felt heavy with worry. Nurse Halloran’s concentration leaned strongly toward Commander Strand. Was she keeping her eyes open to catch Rummond’s hallucinations, so that she could try and distract him from them? Was she making _certain_ that he ate something each day? 

“Nurse French!” She heard her name hissed from behind her, across the aisle. “Nurse French!” And something collided with her leg. She looked down to find a balled up pair of socks, then up at Lieutenant Scarlet.

Belle went over, giving him a reprimanding look, and held his socks out to him.

“Sorry about that,” he said sheepishly. “Depth perception’s not what it used to be.”

“You need something that can’t wait, I take it?”

“No, but _you_ do. If you want to go through with me plan, I think now might be a good time for it,” he suggested.

Belle hesitated, but he was right. Amid the pandemonium, there couldn’t be a better moment. Before she could respond, he started in.

“Oi! Nurse French! I need myself a blanket. I’m likely to freeze to death, a place like this!” 

She looked at him in disbelief. His acting was _terrible_. He beamed up at her, heavy eyebrows rising toward his hairline, and she was absolutely certain that Nurse Mills would see right through the ploy. She turned to look at the head nurse.

Nurse Mills cast around, searching for an orderly. The only one on the ward was preoccupied with cleaning up after the General’s current round of distemper. “Well? What are you waiting for, nurse? An engraved request?” she sniped from across the ward.

At another time, Belle might have flushed at being reproved before the entire room, but right now it was precisely what she needed. Unable to believe it had worked, she looked back at Lieutenant Scarlet. He made sure that the head nurse’s attention had turned away again, before giving her an even wider, exaggerated grin, and raised both hands in thumbs-up.

“Thank you,” she mouthed, grinning back at him and shaking her head. She left the ward before Nurse Mills had the chance to re-evaluate who she was allowing to go.

She hurried through the corridors between the west and east wings, glancing back over her shoulder, just in case Nurse Mills had second thought enough to send someone to stop her.

Her attention was so concentrated behind her that she missed Dr. Whale coming into the hallway in front of her, from the hospital entrance. He wore his traveling coat, pulling a pair of gloves off his hands as he walked. 

“Nurse French,” he greeted, raising a hand to touch his hat as they passed.

Belle slowed, smiling politely. “Good evening, doctor.”

She waited until he was sufficiently past to speed her steps again, hoping that he didn’t think anything odd in seeing her, and she was still flustered when she reached the front desk. Nurse Lind stood there, performing her end of day organization, getting ready to clock out.

“Where are you hurrying off to?” the older nurse asked, teasing in her question.

“Oh, you know, here and there,” Belle answered quickly as she passed. Lord, but she was doing a dismal job of sneaking, unseen as she’d hoped to be. Neither Dr. Whale nor Mal had any reasons to report her to the head nurse, as least.

The stretch between the entrance and the east ward doors was blessedly clear, and she felt victorious as she stepped inside. The feeling was short lived.

Rummond’s bed was empty and crisply made, no dinner tray on his table. The washroom door was wide open. He wasn’t on the ward. For a second, she was afraid he’d left the hospital altogether. But _there_ \- there on his table was the book Jefferson had lent him, and his toiletry bag on the shelf underneath.

The supply closet, then. She turned around, heading for the north wing, restraining herself from a run with the need to see him. It was late. Past time for her to clock out, really. The sky outside the windows was nearly pitch black. If she didn’t turn up at home soon, her father would send the car, and possibly Donat along with it.

Belle reached for the door handle before coming to a stop. She slipped inside, calling his name… and found herself alone. Fighting down a surge of fear, she headed back toward the east ward, no longer able to hold back from running.

Where else could he be? Dr. Hopper had gone home, and didn’t have appointments so late, anyway. Graham was gone, as well. Unless Rummond had found another hiding place?

“Mary Margaret!” Belle called when she saw her come out of the ward up ahead.

Nurse Nolan froze, glancing around as if she were looking for a way out. “Belle!” she replied with a tense smile. “What are you doing over here?”

Belle ignored her question. “When is the last time you saw Captain Gold? I looked in, and it doesn’t seem as if his bed has been slept in today.”

“When did you-” Nurse Nolan gave her a funny look, shaking her head. “You didn’t hear? I thought it would have gotten around. It always does.”

“Tell me! Please?”

“Well…” The other nurse hesitated. “He’s been in confinement since last evening.”

Belle frowned, but she felt a flicker of relief. Confinement. She could get him out of confinement.

“He stopped eating,” Nurse Nolan continued guiltily.

“When I saw you just a few days ago, you told me that he was fine,” Belle reminded her, her worry multiplying. If he hadn’t been eating…

“Dr. Whale had him taken down to be force fed. He seemed all right the first two times, but-”

“ _Two?_ I just bet he was ‘all right,’” Belle muttered, raising a hand to cover half her face. “What else have they done?”

“They took him down again after dinner yesterday, to feed him. It didn’t go well. He fought it. The doctor didn’t go through with the feeding, but he had him placed in confinement.” Nurse Nolan gave her a wary look, then spoke quickly. “Dr. Whale prescribed a shock treatment. He’s come in late to do it.”

“ _What?_ No!” Belle cried, and she turned to run.

Nurse Nolan grabbed her sleeve. “It’ll be _fine_ ,” she cooed, giving Belle what she was sure was meant to be a reassuring smile. “Captain Gold will be so much better when he gets back - you’ll see! He might even eat better,” she said so cheerfully that Belle actually wished she could believe it, for a moment.

“Better? Like Argall? Like Tillman? Let go of me!” Belle jerked her arm away. Argall had been one of Nurse Nolan’s favorite patients. And they’d all seen Tillman shipped off to a sanitarium with damage so severe that he could barely walk on his own.

Nurse Nolan had no answer. She shook her head and walked past, and Belle could only hope that she wasn’t headed to report her to Nurse Mills.

She felt close to panic. It didn’t affect _everyone_ in such ways, of course, but there _was_ the high chance. And it wasn’t one she wanted to take, not with Rummond.

She wrung her hands and twisted at the fabric of her apron skirt. She had to think clearly. What could she _do_? She couldn’t very well burst in and stop them. It would do no good, and likely end only in the loss of her job. Lieutenant Scarlet’s distraction came back to her. It was better than nothing.

Belle went to the ward door and peered in. The men were still eating, utensils clinking and scraping on plates the only sounds that greeted her. “Lieutenant Hargreaves!” she whispered loudly. “Lieuten- _Jefferson!”_

He finally looked up from his dinner. She flicked her hand to beckon him, and to his credit, he moved more quickly than his usual saunter.

“You look more harassed than usual, nursie,” he said, following when she stepped back into the hallway.

“I need a favor.”

He gave her a short, playful bow. “Anything my favorite nurse commands.”

“I’m serious!” she nearly shrieked in her alarm. “I need a distraction. I need you to cause a bit of a commotion. _Not here_. Go to the general ward.”

Jefferson narrowed his eyes at her in mock suspicion.

“Do not ask. Just do,” she told him. “And _hurry_.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, snapping his shoulders back but retaining his grin, and he brushed past her to move down the corridor. He called back over his shoulder, “You know, you must come back. Nurse Halloran doesn’t know her elbow from an enema.”

“Nothing that will hurt anyone. And _don’t_ get caught!” she warned, and he leaned his head back, waving the back of his hand at her as he disappeared around the corner.

Belle hoped that she was doing the right thing. It would be far easier to get Lieutenant Hargreaves out of confinement, if he happened to end up there, than it would be to liberate Rummond from the therapy room full of attendants. The west ward was so out of sorts today, surely another straw on the camel’s back would force Nurse Mills to notify Dr. Whale and obtain some manner of help. It had to work. If it didn’t… 

She tilted her face up, looking upward and about to pray, and something caught her eye. The electric wiring that was bracketed to the ceiling.

The hospital was old. The electricity, however, was new.

An idea sprang to mind so fully formed that it took her breath. 

She ran to the front desk and drummed her hands desperately on the countertop. “Mal! Mal, I need the fire axe!”

Nurse Lind was on her way past the end of the desk, and she turned right around with a sigh. “What on Earth are you going to do with an axe?” she asked, but she went into the storage room and took it from its hangers on the wall.

Belle didn’t wait for her to set it on the counter - she pulled it right from Nurse Lind’s hands, turned, and looked up again, searching. The wiring. Where was the wiring?

She found where it had been run and anchored across the ceiling to power the foyer lights, and she ran out the door, following it with the older nurse calling after her, “You oughtn’t run with that!”

Squinting her eyes to follow the wire high on the front of the building and around to the side, she pointed at it to keep track. She stumbled in the grass with her heels, struggling in the nearly moonless night to find where the wiring ran down. It was low enough to reach.

She’d never had reason to use an axe before. Adjusting her hands on the wooden handle, she pulled back. She swung the axe to cut the wire, ducking and recoiling from the sparks and the loud _pop_ and the pain of reverberation through her arms when the blade hit the stone of the building.

The hospital windows went dark.


	34. On a White Horse

He didn’t remember much at all between Tuesday afternoon and fighting the orderlies the day before. Gardner had come in soon after the chloroform wore off and forced something under his tongue, holding his mouth shut until it was gone. Judging by way he felt when he woke, it must have been the same thing Nurse Mills had given him, and that Nurse French had been so upset over.

He couldn’t manage to stay awake for more than a few moments. His surroundings barely registered. The floor felt soft, there was a small amount of light coming in from somewhere, and the room smelled like ammonia. Later in the day, he awakened enough to push himself into a sitting position against the padded wall with his good leg, and fought waves of panic as he realized they’d put a straitjacket on him before locking him in. Unable to put weight on his right ankle, he couldn’t get to his feet.

Rummond took deep breaths, trying to force himself calm, trying to think through the fog that he seemed to be steeped in. The small window situated high on the back wall wasn’t big enough to discern what time of day it was, but the fact that there was daylight meant he’d been in overnight. They would be coming for him, and he wished he could know what time it was, if nothing else.

They were going to do to him what they’d done to Tillman. They would take his mind and lock his body away, and there was nothing he could do to stop it now.

Panic surged, and he fought against the jacket. He pushed his arms forward and tried to spread them wider; perhaps he could rip the ties, buckles - whatever it was secured with - out of the seams? But the jacket didn’t give. Not a single thread popping could he hear. He roared in fear and frustration, and fought until his shoulder joints hurt, slamming himself back against the wall when he’d worn out.

Either it was later than he had imagined, or he’d lost hours, because before long the window grew perfectly dark and dropped the room into the same. He was still woozy and out of sorts when the door opened. A pair of orderlies entered, neither of whom he recognized. As resentful as he felt toward Humbert, he wished the orderly that he knew best was present. Humbert didn’t allow them to mistreat him, at least.

The second orderly backed into the room, bringing a wheelchair in with him. He parked it next to Rummond, and they moved to flank him. 

“Don’t,” he attempted to appeal, gathering all the wits he could manage with his head swimming. “I’ve seen what it does, what-”

“They can’t help the begging,” one said to the other, as if he weren’t there. “Makes you feel awfully for ’em.”

The orderlies each slipped a hand beneath his arms and brought him easily to his feet. He grimaced, clenching his teeth when they made him stand. The pain relieved a bit when they sat him in the chair, and much as he hated it, he wasn’t sure whether he could walk even had he not hurt himself.

One of the men wheeled him through the half-lit corridor, past a number of closed doors, toward an open room from which brighter light poured.

The room was tiled bright white, its contents sparse. A modified examination table, surprisingly padded. A cart holding what he assumed to be the machine. Two nurses and the doctor were all present, until he was brought in. They shut the door behind him.

The orderlies lifted him again, entirely this time, and placed him on the table. One moved so that they stood on either side of him, and they began bringing straps up from the table’s edges. Buckles rattled as the sturdy pieces of leather were turned the right way around, and the orderlies secured him at legs, torso, and shoulders.

The doctor turned toward the cart to pull it closer. A cord led from the machine on top to the wiring along the ceiling, spliced in. The box was a finely made piece of cabinetry, lacquered glossy, with a polished brass latch hanging free on the front. A pair of thin wires uncoiled from it as the doctor lifted out a set of disk-shaped metal wands with wooden handles.

“I-” Rummond croaked, having to stop to swallow over a lump in his still irritated throat. “I don’t _need_ this,” he said, fixing his eyes on Dr. Whale. 

“Captain Gold,” the doctor said in what Rummond was sure the man meant as a reassuring tone. “This is not a punishment. It’s a cure. You’ll be right as rain. You’ll understand very soon.”

“Right as rain. _Tillman_ was right as rain.” He barked a distraught laugh.

Dr. Whale frowned down at him. “Lieutenant Tillman’s outcome was… an anomaly.”

The hard-faced nurse standing at the head of the table took the ends of a last strap as one of the orderlies positioned his head so that he faced the ceiling. She secured it tightly across his brow.

His heart pounded harder, speeding up. Couldn’t they have taken the jacket off? Couldn’t he have his last minutes knowing himself with even the illusion of being free in body, if no other way? He shifted his shoulders, tilting his head back in an instinctual attempt to get out from under the strap. An orderly pushed him flat to the table with a hand on his chest.

“I believe it’s time for a bit of anaesthetic,” Dr. Whale said. “Nurse, if you would?”

 _“Please, don’t,”_ Rummond gasped on two breaths, but the younger of the two nurses took an anaesthesia mask from its case.

She held the cloth-covered wire frame over his mouth and nose with one hand, and administered chloroform from a drip bottle with the other. It worked quickly. He felt hazy, and his body relaxed. His quick, shallow breathing grew slower and deeper, though the edge of panic in his thoughts didn’t dull. He had expected to be put to sleep, as they’d done the day before, but he found himself just sedated enough to be forced into compliance.

The mask was taken away, and he felt the same nurse open his mouth. A piece of smooth, shaped rubber was placed between his teeth to cover his tongue, stopping just short of making him gag.

“Ready, doctor,” the nurse said, taking a small step back.

Rummond tried to twist his body - _told_ his limbs to move, his body to twist, but it wouldn’t obey.

There was a knock at the door, and the doctor called out for the person to enter. Yet another nurse he didn’t recognize peered in. “Dr. Whale? There’s a disturbance on the general ward, and we’re short on orderlies. Nurse Mills asked if we might borrow one or two from elsewhere for the rest of the night.”

“Yes, yes, of course. I believe we can make do here with one of each, in fact. You may go,” the doctor said, motioning to one of the orderlies. “And Nurse Fletcher. Go and help Nurse Mills with her troubles, if you would.”

“Yes, doctor,” the stern nurse acknowledged with a nod, and she and an orderly left the room.

Placing both wooden handles in one hand, Dr. Whale turned the machine on, and the device hummed as he fiddled with its settings. “A bit lower than last time, I think,” he said, trading positions with the nurse so that he stood at the head of the table.

Rummond heard the doctor speaking as though his head were under in the bath. The chloroform forced calm on him; he didn’t _want_ to be calm. He wanted to thrash and flail, to get them away from him. Or to make it as difficult as possible for them, at least. He tried his best to fight against the anaesthesia, but he couldn’t _move_. He could barely hold his eyes open.

He felt the nurse smear something at his temples, and the doctor brought the wands in to rest against his skin.

They couldn’t do this. They couldn’t _do_ this.

“Ready with the switch, nurse,” the doctor said. “We’ll try seven seconds.”

He was plunged into silence and darkness.

Was this it? Was this what happened?

Had they done it, and he’d already gone?

“Doctor?” the nurse squeaked.

“An appropriate end to this ridiculous day,” Dr. Whale grumbled. “Nurse, fetch a lantern! Mr. Walsh, go see if you can tell what’s happened.”

Rummond squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then opened them again. He could see. _Barely_ , but he could see. The nurse went around the end of the table, and though it made his head spin sickeningly, he saw the motion when he shifted his eyes as far downward as he could.

The door opened and closed. There was a scrabbling, the sound of cupboards being gone through. He heard the scrape of a match, there was a too-bright flash, and at last the nurse got a lantern going.

Dr. Whale replaced the parts of the machine, and though it had ceased its humming, he turned the entire thing off.

It didn’t take long for the orderly to return. “Electricity is down all over the hospital,” he said, standing in the doorway.

“Of course it is.” The doctor sighed. “I suppose there’s no use in keeping the patient here while it’s sorted. Orderly, give me a hand.”

The nurse set her lantern on the table next to the machine, and she took the rubber guard from Rummond’s mouth. The orderly set about unstrapping him. By the time he’d been freed, the anaesthetic had worn off enough that he could move, though with a great deal of effort. Dr. Whale and the orderly lifted him down, placing him back into the wheelchair. 

“Back to confinement?” the orderly asked, circling around to take the chair’s handles, and headed back into the hallway with the lantern-bearing nurse at his side.

“Dr. Whale!” someone called, and _oh_ , that voice, he _knew_.

Rummond looked up at Nurse French, his eyes wide. She hadn’t yet looked at him. He couldn’t blame her, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of her, either.

“Nurse French,” the doctor greeted her again.

“Something seems to have happened to the electricity,” Belle said, working to control her breathing. She’d run as hard as she could from the front of the hospital, slowing only a corner away from the corridor they stood in. Her heart hammered, and she was glad that the dim light concealed how flushed her face was.

“It does seem so,” he responded tersely. “I’ll be looking into it. I’m sure it will be all straightened out before tomorrow evening. You seem a bit beside yourself,” he observed.

“The electricity - it was a bit alarming, going out as it did.” She smiled, and the nervousness in it was honest, even if she allowed him to assume a different reason behind it.

“An inconvenient bit of timing, to be sure.” He stepped aside, waving the orderly on. “Yes, yes, confinement, go on.”

“Confinement?” Belle asked. “He seems well enough to go back to his bed.”

“I hardly think you’re in a position to assume such things, Nurse French. Had the patient not been sedated earlier, he wouldn’t be nearly so calm.”

Rummond pulled in a deeper breath, concentrating. “I’m fine,” he managed, and even to his own ears, he was the farthest from believable. He didn’t dare shake his head to better get his point across; it might have fallen off his shoulders.

“I’m certain that you know more about these things, but I can’t believe it would cause harm for him to sleep in his own bed for the night,” Belle continued, attempting flattery, ignoring Rummond’s try at placating the doctor, himself. 

“I’m not sure how appropriate that is…” Whale hemmed and hawed. “The commotion he caused.”

“A commotion when he was taken to be fed, wasn’t it?” Belle said. From the corner of her eye, she could see Rummond watching her, and it was killing her to minimize her attention toward him. “Putting someone under the stress of being force fed three times in as many days? Is it not understandable, that a patient in Captain Gold’s previous situation might not handle that terribly well?”

The doctor frowned, looking from Nurse French to Captain Gold, considering. “You may have a point,” he finally conceded at a mutter.

Belle gave Rummond an appraising look fully intended for Dr. Whale to witness, and her voice gained mettle when she told him, “He certainly doesn’t look in any state to go into confinement for another night. Surely you wouldn’t want him to come to harm.”

Dr. Whale looked at Rummond as if he hadn’t noticed his condition. “I suppose observation would be fine,” he reluctantly agreed. “I _will_ be checking in on him in the morning.”

“Of course.” Belle nodded. “If you need to see to the electricity situation, I can take him along.”

“I suppose I must. And I thought to be on my way home by now,” Dr. Whale grumbled. He reached for the lantern still held by the nurse who had been assisting him. “Thank you, Nurse French.”

“Thank you, doctor.” Belle waited for Dr. Whale, as well as the nurse and orderly following him, to make their way down the corridor a bit. The way wasn’t quite as dark as it had been when she came back in - the night shift had begun lighting lanterns here and there.

When she was positive that they were out of hearing range, Belle stepped around behind Rummond, slipping her hands between him and the back of the chair to begin unbuckling the straitjacket. “I’m so sorry,” she said, working as quickly as she could with trembling hands. Her eyes stung. “I didn’t know.”

“Up,” he rasped desperately. “Up from this thing.”

“I will. Let me-” She slid her hands farther, reaching for the strap below the small of his back that secured the jacket between his legs. She wouldn’t ask him to sit forward, fearing he would topple from the chair, drugged as he was. Pulling the last buckle open, she went around again to tug it off of his arms.

Draping the thing over her shoulder, she changed her stance to brace. “All right, come on,” she said gently, bending to wrap an arm around him. “Put your arm around my shoulders.”

“I can walk,” he claimed. “Just help me up.”

Belle didn’t argue; she knew that he would see when they got him standing. He was barely steady enough to sit up in the wheelchair, let alone walk off by himself.

She did much of the work in getting him to his feet, and he yelped with the first step. He’d hoped perhaps not having walked on it, and the chloroform still in his system, the pain might be dulled. Luck, as usual, was not on his side.

“Do you want to go back to the chair?” she asked, holding tightly to him.

Rummond shook his head, and the hallway tilted and swam, making him stagger. Her arm shot out to touch the wall, to steady them.

It was a long walk, with his limp and leaning against her, much as he loathed to. He hated himself a little more every time he whimpered as the anaesthetic wore off. His ankle screamed, pain blazing clear up his leg and into his hip. He couldn’t bear weight on it, and he worried how much further damage he’d done.

“I’m going to get you back to your bed very soon,” Belle promised as they made their slow way toward the glow of the front desk up ahead. She walked them back in the direction of the east wing, needing a place to take him aside, to clean him up and keep him calm as his head cleared.


	35. Up to the Light

Nurse Lind had gone when they passed through the foyer, but the front desk carried three lanterns with high flames held within their globes. Belle steered them near the counter, so that Rummond could brace a hand on the edge. She could feel him shaking as they walked.

Her back and shoulders were in knots by the time she got him to the examination room where Graham performed intake. They would have quiet there, she hoped, and perhaps with all the unrest in the hospital, no one would be looking for either of them.

“Here,” she said, cringing at the pained sound he made as she helped him a last few steps to the nearest seat. “Here, sit down right here.”

Rummond collapsed onto the stool, half taking her with him. He leaned back against the countertop as he attempted to catch his breath.

She set a hand on his shoulder, giving him a quick, cursory lookover. His leg had very obviously been re-injured, and she had to hope that no further harm had come to him. His gown was damp below the waist - she could see the darker, almost transparent area of the cotton garment - and all at once she understood the smell of ammonia that had followed them.

They’d left him in confinement for nearly twenty-four hours by himself, she realized. No one who had ostensibly been responsible for his care had enough thought to look in on him, to make sure that he was clean or unharmed. How long had he sat this way?

“Oh… Oh, God,” she said under her breath. She grit her teeth, anger at Nurse Mills, at Dr. Whale, at the orderlies, at the entire damned situation surging in the same moment, and she slung the straitjacket from her shoulder across the room. It hit something in a dark corner, turning over what sounded like an instrument tray. 

Rummond startled, and she immediately regretted her burst of temper. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she apologized. She reached for his hands, curling her fingers into his, and squeezed them. He looked up at her as if he were trying to blink her into focus, before turning his face away again. “We need a bit of light, don’t we?” She nodded to herself. “We need a lantern.”

Belle stepped away from him and began going through the lower cabinets for a lantern. There should have been one, unless someone had taken it out for some reason. After searching behind each and every door, she decided that this must be the case - no lantern, not even a box of matches.

“I need to go and fetch one, then. We’ll need water, anyway, won’t we?” she said, hoping to engage him. He didn’t move from the stare he had fixed on his hands. “I’ll be right back. You stay here. I’ll be _right_ back.”

Rummond raised his head as she disappeared through the exam room door. She’d come for him. For _him_. His eyes burned, and he tried to stop it, but tears brimmed and quickly overflowed. He simply sat with his hands in his lap, tears dropping onto them from the tip of his nose, and he waited.

Belle returned with a filled basin in one hand, a lantern in the other, and a stack of washcloths splayed from her apron pocket. She set everything on the counter nearest him before going back to lock the door, to ensure that no one walked in. 

“I’m going to help you clean up, all right?” she told him, pulling a matchbox from her apron, and opened the lantern. It didn’t cast a bright glow, but it was enough to see by.

Rummond didn’t respond, and it didn’t escape her notice. “Is that all right?” she repeated, taking the cloths and placing them into the steaming water.

He didn’t look up, but nodded just enough that she could tell.

Seeing him in the light, she had no hope of holding back her own tears. He was so thin, his face so filled with shadows, it frightened her. Kneeling down on the tile before him, she took a breath, trying to pull her professionalism about her. She reached up to unbutton his gown, easing it down over one shoulder once she had the shortened placket open. He obediently brought his arm out, and they repeated the process with the other side. Belle’s hands forgot what they were doing as she looked him over, finding to her dismay that she could count his ribs by sight.

“Didn’t anyone look after you?” she asked before she could stop herself, throat tightening at the deterioration she could see in only the days she’d been away. 

It took him a moment, but he told her, “Humbert. Humbert did.”

She turned her head to brush her face against her upper arm, wiping away a tear that made her cheek itch as it ran down. Graham. Bless Graham for being a _good_ orderly, and not wrapped around Nurse Mills’ fingers.

Belle took a cloth, squeezing most of the water from it. “Here, look at me,” she said softly, giving him a gentle prompt with her fingertips beneath the line of his jaw.

Though he looked aside, avoiding meeting her gaze, he raised his face to her. She saw that he wept, as well. Tears wavered as they gathered, spilling over as she watched. She used the warm cloth to wash them away. The urge to wrap her arms around him was nearly overpowering.

Rummond’s eyes fell closed as she stroked his face with her washcloth-covered hand, her motions working to soothe him a bit. She made wide swaths over his cheeks and jaw, over his mouth and across his forehead, before rinsing the cloth and carefully washing his eyelids. Done with his face, she wiped one temple a little more firmly, turned the cloth in half, and did the same to his other. Afterward, he remembered the nurse who had applied something to his skin there. He shuddered.

“You’re cold,” Belle said, frowning. It wasn’t a question; she didn’t give him room to deny it. She dropped the cloth aside to add to the laundry, taking another from the water. “I’ll try to hurry.”

He didn’t _want_ her to hurry, but that wasn’t something he could say. She ran the clean cloth around the back of his neck, bringing it over his throat, and switched hands to wash the other side. A rivulet of water slid over his collarbone and down his chest, warm for just a moment before it cooled in the air.

Rummond kept his eyes shut for as long as he could stand to, afraid of what kind of disgust he might see in her expression as she continued. It was a stuttered sniffle that made him open his eyes and look at her properly.

Tears shone on her face in the lantern light. It surprised him and made his heart lurch, though he didn’t understand why she cried. He reached up, brushing the wet trails from her cheeks with the back of his fingers. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice weary and uneven, knowing that it was his fault, one way or another.

She shook her head, catching one of his hands in hers, and began running the damp cloth over it. Palm and back, between his fingers, along the inside of his wrist and up his arm. She let go when she reached his shoulder, taking his other hand to do the same over. There was still muscle there - a bit, in his upper arms - though it seemed every ounce of fat had burned off him in his body’s struggle to keep him alive while his mind attempted to do the opposite.

“Here, lean into me,” she whispered after dropping her washcloth and retrieving yet another from the basin. The water plashed softly in the quiet room as she wrung it.

Rummond did as she told him, leaning forward as much as he could without feeling as if he would tip over. He turned his head so that his face wouldn’t be so intrusive on her breathing room. She placed a firm hand on his left shoulder to steady him, and she leaned in a little, herself, her free arm going around him.

It wasn’t a hug. Inches remained between them. And it served to make him ache for it to be one. He found the desire to wrap his arms around her, to hold onto her and bury his face against her neck. Clenching his eyes shut again, he tried to push the urge away, and wrapped his arms around his middle.

Belle made long strokes across his back. His skin was _so_ cold to the touch, and she could feel constant waves of shivering running through him. The tremors seemed to grow stronger - far worse than his usual shaking. It was the chloroform, she told herself. She knew what it did to heart rate and blood pressure. It was likely the chloroform. It would go away soon.

She felt another flash of anger. How _stupid_ of Dr. Whale to administer something that would slow his heart, the condition he was already in.

“It’s all right,” she murmured out of need to comfort him. She slowed a little, her motions changing from professional to more soothing, petting his back with the washcloth a flimsy barrier between them. She ran her hand down, stroking across the concave at the base of his spine.

He felt a heavy tightness close around his heart as she went on, far too aware of her hand on his shoulder, a much-needed spot of warmth seeping into his skin. No one had touched him in more than the most clinical and cursory of ways in _so long_. He was freezing, but he dreaded when she would stop. He scolded himself for allowing the feeling. She was a nurse and he no more than a patient - the last two weeks had driven that home with abundant clarity. Nurse French was doing her job, and he knew that he should be ashamed of himself for enjoying it when she’d never meant anything she had done for him in any other way.

Rummond shivered again, more violently, and she dipped her cloth back into the warm water. She pushed gently against the shoulder where her hand lingered, telling him, “You can sit back.” 

He leaned slowly away from her again, and she tugged at one of his arms. “Here, move these,” she said. “We’re almost half done. Just a bit more, and we can get you a clean gown and back into your bed…”

He moved for her, allowing his hands to rest in his lap. She washed across his collarbones first, then over his chest and ribs, down his stomach, and his flanks. The muscles beneath the left side of his ribs twitched as she moved over them, and looking more closely, she could see the slight difference between the sides - at some point in his life, there had been a badly healed break.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, and she raised her eyes to find him looking back at her. 

“Doing what?” Her voice wasn’t as steady as she’d have liked, her throat still straining against crying as hard as she felt like she might in private later.

Rummond looked down, where she’d stripped him to the waist, to the basin of water, the dwindling stack of washcloths. She shouldn’t have to do this. She couldn’t possibly _want_ to handle his body.

“Why?” she echoed, looking up into eyes that glinted black in the low light, and her heart thumped. She could tell that the anaesthesia had nearly cleared from his head. His gaze was sharper.

He nodded, the draw of his brow that had disappeared for a moment when she’d washed his face having returned.

“Because I’m your nurse.” It was far, far from what she wanted to say. She’d given scores of baths to patients who couldn’t wash themselves. But this felt different in more ways than one.

“What happened?” Rummond asked as she folded the hem of his hospital gown up past his knees. She began washing his legs, and he shifted his eyes away again uncomfortably.

“What do you mean?”

“The lights.”

“Oh. That-” Belle sniffled, touching her nose with the back of her wrist, and she shook her head. “That _might_ have been me. I damaged the wiring,” she confessed at a whisper. “I needed to stop it - to stop Dr. Whale. I needed time to find you.”

He stared at her, jaw slack. She’d orchestrated a way to get him away from that machine. She _had_ come after him. None of it had been coincidence.

“Thank you,” he breathed. It wasn’t enough, but there was no way he could put to words how grateful he was for her intervention. If she hadn’t stopped it… Well, he didn’t know for certain what manner of hell he might be in right now.

Belle managed a watery smile, running the washcloth up the back of his calf. She shook her head a little. “It was nothing. Of course I couldn’t let him-” She swallowed hard, having a sudden vision of Rummond haunting the ward as Tillman had after the doctor’s ‘cure.’

She washed his legs quickly, down to his toes and just above his knees, taking particular care with his right leg to not put pressure on the injured area. Even in the low light, she could see a terrible bruise forming right around the old scars, and it worried her. 

She exchanged the used washcloth for another, when she finished. “Do you want to wash under your gown?” she asked, aware how intensely self-conscious he was. “Or do you want me to?”

When he remembered the condition of his gown and his body beneath it, his face burned. He shrank back from her. “I’m so sorry,” he apologized again.

“No, Rummond, sw-” Belle bit her tongue. She shook her head, reaching out to rest a hand on his bare shoulder, near his neck, and her thumb stroked a short path back and forth over his skin. “Don’t,” she said. “It isn’t your fault.”

Her kindness sent him back over the edge, and the tears that dropped onto his cheeks this time felt scalding. After one aborted reach, he took the washcloth from her hand. “I will,” he muttered, looking intently down it.

She stood and stepped over to fetch a fresh gown and a pair of hospital issue underwear down from the cupboard by the door, and left them next to the basin. “There are more cloths in the water, if you need them. I’ll just… step back here,” she said, motioning to the dressing screen. “Tell me if you need anything.”

Rummond waited until she was safely hidden before he moved. He dropped the cloth back into the water to keep it warm, knowing it might take him a while.

Belle turned her back to her patient on the other side of the screen. She could hear him. There was a small splash, the creak of the stool, and then a sound of pain that made her stomach clench. She glanced over her shoulder at his silhouette against the fabric screen. He weaved a bit, but balanced himself, and she turned away again to give him privacy. She twisted her hands together. He would eat something for her, surely? Perhaps in the morning? She considered what might tempt him, and worried how his stomach might react if he truly hadn’t eaten in as long as she suspected.

He looked over at the screen to make sure that she still stood behind it, before he finished stripping to the skin. After dropping his damp, acrid gown and underwear atop the used washcloths, he fished the one he took from Nurse French out of the basin again. A litany of hate slunk through his thoughts as he finished washing himself, reminding him precisely how little he was worth, how many people would be better off if only he were _dead_ , just how disgusting a thing he was… They poured through his head, making it hard to breathe.

“Rummond?” Nurse French said. He startled, but she was still out of sight. “Are you all right?”

“Almost done,” he answered, dropping the cloth with the rest and reaching for the primly-folded pair of underwear. They were cotton, too thin for his taste, but they would do.

Belle shook her head, but she stayed put. “That isn’t what I asked,” she muttered under her breath. The height of stubbornness, even when he was in pain.

He dropped the hospital gown over his head, needing an unusual bit of concentration to get his arms through the sleeves. “All right,” he said, satisfied that he was covered enough.

She stepped around the end of the screen, gathering the bit of laundry while he got his gown done up. The basket was full enough to go down to the washers, so she moved it over next to the door, to be set in the hallway for the morning.

When she turned back, Rummond still fought with his buttons, his hands trembling terribly.

“I can’t _stop_ ,” he huffed out a shaky, upset sigh, curling his hands into fists and releasing them.

“It’s the chloroform that does it,” she said, hoping that the knowledge would help his frustration. “Anaesthetic shivers. They’ll go away.”

“They _would_ have to find a thing that makes it worse.” He frowned down at his hands, then set about trying again.

Belle noticed how he stood with all of his weight on one foot. She touched his arm and took a small step toward him, encouraging him to sit again. He did so without a fuss, and she reached to take his hands, guiding them gently down so that she could help with his collar. His jaw tightened, but he couldn’t stop his lower lip from shaking.

She had a grand total of two buttons slipped through when she could no longer stand it. Belle knelt again, beside rather than in front of him this time, and took him into her arms.

He simply sat there, tensed and afraid to move even enough to breathe. One second, he’d been humiliated over being unable to do so much as fasten his own clothing, and the next, she was wrapped around him, and he wasn’t sure what had happened in between.

Gradually, his hands came up to return her gesture, with the intention of hugging, or at the very least to pat, and he somehow wound up grasping handfuls of the back of her apron and dress in his fists.

“It’s going to be all right. I know it doesn’t feel as if it could be, just now, but it will,” she said near his ear, and he felt her arms tighten around him.

It broke something in him, and his body convulsed against hers with a sob. Another followed, and another, and she held him so tightly to her that his ribs hurt. He pressed his face against her shoulder and gave in, abandoning silent grief for the release of keening and of someone _hearing_ him.

Belle resisted the urge to shush him the way she might have a child. He was beyond entitled to fall apart, and she was determined to allow him that for as long as she could, providing him a pillar to lean on. It hurt to witness, and she wished she knew how to console him. 

He quieted slowly, eventually, sobs calming to uneven breaths, and he managed to make himself stop clinging to her clothing.

She relaxed her hold on him when she felt him let go of her, only releasing him completely when he began to lean back. His eyes were glassy and red-rimmed, cheeks flushed. She took it as a good sign; his blood pressure was coming back up.

Belle stroked his hair back from his face, offering him what smile she could muster. He appeared a bit dazed again, and she understood the feeling.

Rummond met Nurse French’s eyes as her fingers grazed along his temples and ears, her palms ghosting over his cheeks. It was barely enough to be called a touch, but he ached to tilt into it, to feel more. His lips parted, and something wholly inappropriate very nearly leapt to his tongue. If he hadn’t enough sense about him to keep his mouth shut, she _would_ have thought him mad. Or she’d have laughed, and that might be still worse.

She reached for the last washcloth in the ceramic basin. The water was cold by now, but she knew from experience that a cool cloth would be more refreshing after such a cry, anyway. She bathed his face, folding the cloth longways when she’d finished, and pressed it to the back of his neck, beneath his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he said yet again, hoarse and weak in voice, feeling wrung out and foolish.

“There’s not a thing wrong with it,” Belle defended. “Anyone who claims differently is an ass.”

Her language shocked a bit of a choked laugh from him, but it was short-lived. His attention fell to the dark spot on her dress. “I-” he began, but she cut him off before he could offer yet another apology.

“It will wash,” she said. She left the cloth at his neck and moved to finish his buttons, then brought her hands down to rest over the forearm he had wrapped around his stomach again. His skin felt marginally warmer, but she couldn’t be sure whether it was an emotional flush, or the anaesthetic truly having worn off.

“What happened?” Belle asked gently, sitting down on her heels.

“They were going to shock me,” he replied, confused. She’d seen him, seen the room.

“What happened _yesterday?”_ she clarified. “Nurse Nolan told me that you- you’ve had a difficult time.”

He ducked his head, going quiet.

“Rummond?” she asked, softening her voice.

“My head hurts,” he murmured.

“That’s the chloroform, as well. It’ll pass.”

He nodded silently, exhaustion falling in on him.

“Can you tell me what happened? Please?” she urged him again.

“They wanted to run that tube back down my throat,” he told her, indignant. “I fought.”

Belle sighed. That would be why he ended up in confinement, then. “Oh, Rummond…”

He tried to shrink away from her. “I didn’t want to _do_ it again. I couldn’t!” 

“I know. It’s all right,” she reassured him, squeezing his arm, trying to keep him from becoming agitated. “I’m not angry.”

His eyes darted a little as he searched her face. “The orderlies chloroformed me, and-”

She frowned and asked, “Which ones?”

The crease in Rummond’s brow deepened, and he closed his eyes for a moment, searching for their names. “Lowell. And Gardner.”

Belle was far from surprised. They were the preferred muscle around the hospital, and found no task unpleasant. “What were you going to say?”

“I woke in that room. In that jacket.” His eyes flicked toward the corner where she’d slung it, and she tightened her hands on his arm to bring his attention back. “They took me into the room with the machine, the lights went out, and then you came.”

“Of course I did.” She smiled a little. “Nurse Nolan told me you’d stopped eating?”

“I couldn’t,” he said, his voice small. “I couldn’t’ve gotten it down if I’d tried…”

She leaned in a bit to see him when he looked down again, making her response equally as quiet. “I know,” she said, and didn’t pursue further. Now was _not_ the time to push there. “Your leg. Did they hurt you? Did one of the orderlies do that?”

He shook his head. “Did it to myself. I fought,” he repeated. 

Belle moved one hand to rub his arm, using short, comforting strokes. They shouldn’t have had him in a position where he _could_ hurt himself.

“They were going to _shock_ me,” he said again, this time in horror, and despite the danger having apparently passed, he felt the second his breathing strayed beyond his control. Too quick, too short, his breaths barely gave oxygen before they were gone. “They were- they’ll do it anyway! When the electricity-”

“I won’t let it happen,” she promised before considering that perhaps she shouldn’t have. She couldn’t be in the hospital on every single shift. She couldn’t stop them from overreacting and doing this to him again. There had to be something she _could_ do. She refused to be helpless, or to allow him to remain so.

For now, she had to concentrate on keeping him calm. If he dwelt upon what nearly happened, he would drive himself into a panic. “Look, here. I want to you inhale through your nose, count to three, exhale through your mouth, and count again. Will you do that for me?”

He gave her a look of doubt, but started breathing with her when she did as she asked him. It took a few minutes, but he began to breathe more slowly on his own.

“Better?” she asked when he seemed less wild-eyed.

“Better,” he agreed. He swallowed, and she saw a flinch at the corners of his eyes. 

“Is your throat sore?” she asked, and he nodded. It was no wonder, being force fed twice in two days, not to mention being stranded for a full day with no water. She could seethe about it, but not in front of him. “I’ll fetch you some tea and honey, when we get you back to the ward, if you think you can drink it?”

Rummond nodded once more, but he didn’t promise. It was the best he could do.

“Good.” She nodded back to him. She was beginning to feel the weight of the day, herself.

“I didn’t m- mean to make you leave the ward,” he said. If he didn’t tell her now, he may never, and he needed her to know. _He_ would leave, if it meant she could come back to her own area of the hospital.

“Make me-?” Belle shook her head, sighing. “You didn’t. It wasn’t you. I was angry, and Nurse Mills overheard. She used what I said to force reassignment.”

Rummond looked up at her, eyes wide with hopeful relief. “…You didn’t ask to be moved?”

“No. I would never,”she assured him.

“Nurse Mills said that you-”

“‘Nurse Mills said.’” Belle interrupted, lifting a hand from his arm to rub at her forehead. “It may be best to take everything that comes from Nurse Mills’ mouth with a great grain of salt.”

He looked a bit abashed for believing the head nurse. “I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you. I made assumptions. It was an idiotic thing I did. I was wrong, Nurse French, and _I’m sorry_.”

She was stunned for a moment by his admission that he owned any fault in the matter. She hadn’t had much experience at all with _anyone_ , man or woman, uttering the words ‘I was wrong.’

“You didn’t know. You were going with what you had.”

“That doesn’t excuse-”

“No, it doesn’t, but I understand. I know a bit about one’s own mouth running away with one.” She gave him a smile. “And by the by, I owe you an apology, as well.”

He corners of his mouth turned down, and he stared at her in disbelief. An apology? What had _she_ to apologize for? “You owe me no such thing.”

“I made remarks that I shouldn’t have. We both had an awful couple of days, there, and apparently the camel’s back had been in danger for quite a while.” She reached up, cradling her hand against his cool, shadowed cheek. “I’m sorry for the things I said, Rummond.” 

Without thinking, he leaned into her touch. When he realized what he was doing, he pulled back, a hunted expression taking his features.

She hesitated, trying to read his eyes to discern why he moved from her reach. Did he not want to be touched, now? Or was it the surprise of it? He stared at her for a moment before moving his free hand to curl it over hers where it still lay on his arm. She decided on the latter, and pursued, reaching more slowly for him, giving him the option of pulling away again.

He didn’t, but he closed his eyes before she made contact. She left her hand there as he bowed his head, stroking her fingertips back and forth behind his jaw.

Belle leaned up, brushing back the hair that fell forward, and pressed a kiss above the line of his stubble.


	36. Inelegant Solutions

She lingered there for such long moments… and he didn’t dare move. _Selfish_ , he thought, but he wanted to hold onto that point of contact for as long as she would remain.

He felt a warm, soft puff of breath from her nose, and then coolness against his cheekbone as she inhaled before she moved slowly away.

A kiss. _Why?_

Belle rubbed the pad of her thumb over the spot. The way he looked at her when she sat back gave her an odd, warm feeling through her chest that felt too dangerous to examine too closely, but she couldn’t help smiling up at him.

“Do you think you’re ready to go back to your bed?” she asked, allowing her hand to rest over his forearm again.

He nodded, managing an unsure, lopsided smile for her. “Willing to make the attempt,” he said.

Belle patted the knee of his good leg, then used it to leverage herself up on knees that smarted from spending so long on the hard tile. She stepped over to the door and, unlocking it, peered out around the doorjamb to make sure that there was no one in the corridor down either way. It didn’t mean someone couldn’t overtake them, slowly as they would move, but it made her feel a little surer.

Rummond was standing when she looked to him again, peeling away the damp cloth she’d placed on his neck. She went back, taking the lantern’s handle, and looped an arm around his waist. He placed his arm across her shoulders just as tentatively at first as before. He fixed his eyes on the floor in front of their feet; she knew he loathed requiring help, but between her and the wheelchair, apparently she was the lesser of two evils. The ward was just a bit farther, anyway.

He clenched his jaw with his first step toward the door, doing his very best to keep quiet as he put weight on his injured leg. With less fog from the drugs they’d used to sedate him, he was better able to hold back the noises that slipped from him earlier, and glad of it. 

He tried to avoid leaning on her too heavily, only every other footfall, and only just enough to get him through the step. His ears were perked for sounds of other people behind them. Nurse French had promised, but what could she do if they _did_ change their minds and came back for him? It wasn’t a promise he could hold her to.

Belle pushed open the ward door just enough to look in. It appeared that lights out had been called since her earlier visit, and she was thankful for it. Fewer prying eyes, fewer questions - until morning, at least.

Nurse Boyd had the night shift. The girl gave them a surprised look when Belle brought her patient - and reassigned or not, he was _her_ patient, she thought intractably - back onto the ward. The younger nurse hurried over, moving to lend help, but Belle felt Rummond resist taking another step as she approached. 

She waved Nurse Boyd off. “We’re all right,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I’ll tend him.”

The other nurse hesitated, but left her to it. Belle got him the last, short stretch across to his bed, and helped him to sit down rather than collapsing onto it. She set her lantern on his bedside table, and from the corner of her eye, she saw Lieutenant Hargreaves lean up on his elbow. He’d made it back without being caught, then, she found to her relief.

She rested a hand on Rummond’s shoulder while he caught his breath, and he turned his head a little toward her. After a few moments, she stepped back and let her hand slip away.

“Don’t go?” he asked so softly she’d have missed it, if she weren’t paying him such close attention.

“I’m going to get your tea,” she said, thinking belatedly that she should have said so beforehand. “I’ll be gone only long enough to make it. I won’t leave you.”

Rummond held her gaze for a moment, and she could see the nervousness there. She patted his shoulder before moving away again, feeling his eyes on her back as she headed out. 

Sure that no one would have thought to light the way down to the kitchen, she took a lantern from the front desk on her way past. Only a cup of tea. That wouldn’t take long. She could make a cup of tea in ten minutes. 

She set the lantern on the counter next to the stove and worked quickly to get the water on, taking what she needed down from the cupboard just beside while she waited for it to boil. When bubbles began breaking the surface, she poured a bit into the utilitarian little teapot that the nurses steeped their own tea in at night, and placed the water back over the flame. She set Rummond’s cup next to the stove to warm it, so that it wouldn’t draw all of the heat out of his tea.

It seemed to take far longer than the minute or two she knew it was for the hot water to warm the teapot through, so that she could pour it out again. Taking it over to the sink, she emptied it, and took it back to place a spoonful of tea leaves in the bottom of the pot. They usually served the men a blend of three that generally contented everyone - only the most difficult to please being an exception - but she chose the one she’d learned through trial and error that he seemed to drink best.

Belle poured in enough water for a cup and checked her lapel watch. She paced the short length of the kitchen. Six minutes to steep. She was anxious to get back, worrying every second he was out of her sight.

With a minute left, she busied herself by taking down the honey jar and wrenching open the lid, finding the bowl of wedged lemon in the icebox, and pulling a spoon and strainer from the top drawer. Placing the strainer atop the warmed cup, she poured the tea through. She forewent the honey dipper to take a bit with the spoon, then looked at the jar and went back for a second spoonful bigger than the first. It would help his throat, she justified. It wasn’t _only_ to sneak sugar and calories into him. 

Squeezing lemon into the tea, she stirred it once more, and grabbed the light. She would apologize to Zelda in the morning for leaving her a mess to clean up, but she was unwilling to spare the minutes it would take her to see to, herself.

She barely paused to leave the lantern at the front desk. When she nudged open the ward door, she found Rummond poking slowly through his table drawer. He looked up, relief flooding his expression upon seeing her again, and she wasn’t quite sure what to do with that.

“Are you looking for something in particular?” she asked, setting his cup next to the book that still sat on top. 

He shook his head and whispered in return, “Only checking to make sure nothing has found new homes while I was away.”

Belle grinned. “And have they?”

“Perhaps miraculously, no.” He returned her smile with a weak one of his own.

He pushed the drawer shut, and she saw a shiver pass through him. “All right, in,” she urged, reaching for the blankets to tug them from under him. Rummond tilted to one side as she pulled, helping as well as he currently could, and she shooed him underneath. He turned so that he sat up in the bed, and she pulled his blankets around him.

When he’d settled, she put his tea in his hands. Too hot by a good bit to be able to cup his hands around it yet, he took the handle and held one palm near the opposite side.

Belle sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle him. She watched as he blew into the rim of the cup and finally took a careful sip, rather than only basking in the radiating warmth as she’d seen him do on occasions before. 

She held back a sigh upon seeing his willingness to drink. After the last few days he’d suffered, she couldn’t bring herself to push him. When he’d managed to have perhaps a half dozen sips of the over-honeyed tea, she asked, “Does that feel a bit better?

“It does,” he answered. The tea soothed on its way down, and his throat already hurt less. Breathing in didn’t give him the cold sensation of air moving over raw skin. 

Belle patted his knee, and took her hand back to fold them together in her lap. Perhaps she could provide a subtle urging over breakfast in the morning, depending on how he felt.

As the cup and the tea inside cooled a little, he wrapped his hands around it. He still had to adjust his grip to release the heat from his skin, but it felt good seeping into the bones and muscles. It didn’t feel as though his hands shook quite so badly, either, with the cup warming them. He brought it close to his chest, where it would warm through his gown.

Looking up, he found her smiling at him, and he was struck with the wish that she would kiss his cheek again.

Rummond’s eyelids began drooping, and his cup tilted a little. Belle reached out to gently take it before it spilled. The action startled him awake, and he frowned down at his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said, and she shook her head. His repetitive apologies squeezed at her heart, that he thought he needed to make them.

“It’s all right,” she told him, her hand still cupped beneath his. “Can you have one more sip?”

He looked into the cup and sighed, blinking quickly in an effort to keep his eyes open. He lifted it, taking not quite a mouthful. He _did_ enjoy the heat of it going down, warming him from the inside, out.

Rummond began to move the cup toward his bedside table. She didn’t take it from him, but followed with her hand, just in case.

“Ready to lie down?” she asked. There had been enough drugs in his system that she hoped perhaps his insomnia had been thrown off for at least the night. What she would give for him to be able to get some truly restful sleep.

He nodded, sliding down in the bed, and turned onto his side to face her. She pulled the blankets up over his shoulder, watching fondly as he nuzzled his face into the pillow. He needed a shave, needed his hair washed, a proper bath with soap, but that could wait until tomorrow.

“Thank you, Nurse French,” he murmured again, shifting his eyes toward her once more before they fell shut.

When had he gone back to calling her by her title instead of her name? She reached over, rubbing the back of his shoulder, hoping that his sleep would be sound.

“He’s all right?” Jefferson asked quietly across the space between beds, and Belle realised that he was still watching. His face was such a picture of innocent worry that she believed it.

She shook her head. “He will be,” she said, moving her hand to pet between Rummond’s shoulderblades. “How did your evening go?”

“Oh, _smashingly_ ,” Jefferson said with a smirk and a slight incline of his head. 

Belle looked over, eyeing him for a moment. “I don’t want to know the details, do I?”

His smirk grew. “Likely not.”

They exchanged a conspiratorial nod, and he flounced cheerfully back down into his bed, his back to the two of them.

She sat next to Rummond, attempting to plot through the weariness falling on her. And no wonder - checking her watch, she found it was near midnight. Her sleep hadn’t been in the best of shape since she’d been reassigned, either. She needed to come up with a convincing argument against Dr. Whale’s intended ‘treatment,’ in the event that it was still in the man’s mind to inflict. Discussion, obviously, was her likeliest bet. She could meet him at his office first thing in the morning and attempt to convince him that Rummond was better. Drinking most of the tea she’d made him was a good start.

“Nurse French,” came a hiss from the ward doors. Belle looked up to see Nurse Boyd standing in the half-open doorway, looking back over her shoulder.

She stood slowly from the edge of the mattress, easing away so that she didn’t disturb Rummond, and went to meet the other nurse.

“Mr. Gaston is here to see you.” Nurse Boyd delivered the message with a cringe. “He isn’t happy.”

Belle scowled. “Of course he isn’t.” She turned back toward the ward, beckoning Nurse Boyd along. Stepping around to take a chair from where it sat next to Jefferson’s bed - likely having been there since visitor’s day - she placed it firmly next to Rummond’s. “You sit here. Do not move unless someone comes to get him. In that event, you’ll come and get me _immediately,_ ” she ordered.

When the younger nurse didn’t respond, she gave an expectant raise of her eyebrows. Nurse Boyd sat down, nodding. “All right.”

“If he wakes, tell him I stepped out for only a moment.”

Nurse Boyd nodded. “All right,” she said again, looking a bit as if she felt threatened.

Belle hurried off to speak with her fiancé. She didn’t want Rummond to wake and find her gone. He’d had enough of feeling abandoned just now, she understood. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t purposeful - it had happened.

Donat stood at the front desk, his hands clasped tightly behind him, his body language tense. She didn’t look forward to whatever they were about to get into.

“Belle,” he said, turning when he heard the pat of her shoes approaching. 

His voice was pitched low and flat. She bristled immediately, recognizing the tone. It was the way he spoke to servants. 

Donat bent his arm, clearly expecting her to take it. “It’s time for you to go home. The car is waiting.”

“I may not be coming home tonight,” she told him politely, though in no uncertain terms, bringing a cordial smile to her face. “It’s been a bad day here, and we need all the help we can get.”

“Your father is worried, and for that matter, so am I. These last weeks, I thought perhaps things were improving. No night shifts, you were coming home at a reasonable hour.” He shook his head sharply. “And now we have this. Are you to begin skipping dinners altogether, now?”

He spoke down to her as if she were a child to be scolded. She felt the smile desert her face, her eyes narrowing up at him. “Sometimes I can’t clock out as soon as my shift has finished. You know that. I have responsibilities here.”

“You have responsibilities to me!”

“You think I can leave _now?_ Did you miss the lanterns?” She swung her hand toward the desk. “Today has been an absolute pip. The evening meal was late, I have a sick patient-”

“It’s a hospital, Belle, they’re _all_ sick in one way or another!” he scoffed.

“-and now the power has gone out. Tell my father I’ve picked up a 24-hour shift because we’re so short-handed. I’ll be home tomorrow evening in time for dinner.” She raised her chin, drawing her stubbornness around her like a mantle in defense. She _would not_ leave this hospital tonight. They would have to drag her from it kicking and screaming, to remove her.

Donat’s upper lip twitched as if it wanted to curl, but his face went suddenly and peculiarly blank. “Very well,” he said, his voice once again taking on that odd flatness. “I’ll inform your father of what you’ve decided. But you should keep in mind, _I_ am not as indulgent of your flights of fancy as your father is. I won’t have you staying out all hours, once you’re my wife.”

Belle ground her back teeth together against a retort. “Good night,” she clipped shortly, turning on her heel before he could walk away first, and didn’t look back at him. She stopped only long enough to take Rummond’s chart from the table next to the supply closet.

She had no time for Donat’s possessive foolishness. It was an irritation at the best of times, but to come into the hospital with it! 

She stopped to shake off her frustration and annoyance with her fiancé’s bloodyminded demands before going back on the ward, not wanting it to affect her mood.

“Did he wake?” she whispered, making Nurse Boyd jump.

The other nurse shook her head, giving Belle a wary look. She appeared more than ready to get back to her post at the front desk. Ashley tended to knit socks during her night shifts - something she’d done to contribute during the war - and Belle had wondered before where they all went, now that aid societies were no longer gathering them for parceling out to stationed servicemen. The younger nurse also tended to do far fewer walks of the ward than Belle thought appropriate.

“Good,” she said with a nod, looking down at his face. He seemed to sleep peacefully, and she winged up a quick and grateful thanks for that. 

She barely had, “You can go,” off her tongue before Nurse Boyd bolted. With no need of the chair, herself, she lifted it to move it aside, making as little noise as possible. 

Belle claimed her seat on the bedside, glad when the disturbance received only a slightly deeper breath from Rummond. Turning toward the lantern light, she opened his chart to reacquaint herself with it.

The notes were brief and sometimes cryptic, but she knew the language well enough to get a good picture of the last two weeks of Rummond’s life. Little sleep and even less food. Over the past week, he’d gone sharply downward, barely moving from his bed. Graham had finally reported his self-imposed starvation on Saturday morning, and Dr. Whale sent orderlies for him after lunch.

Over the three days before Dr. Whale decided that a course of electric shock was somehow appropriate, Rummond had been force fed twice, with an intended and failed third time noted. Her stomach threatened to send bile back up, as it hadn’t any dinner in it to reject. On the second instance, the doctor had noted ‘mildly combative’ in his almost horizontal scrawl. With some satisfaction, she saw an additional notation in Graham’s neater, looped script parenthesized directly beneath it: ‘(understandably).’ She could practically see the judgment in his handwriting.

Rummond stirred. She reached over, laying her hand against his back again. He woke a little, curling himself smaller, in effect scooting closer to her. 

“Can’t blame you,” he said, accent heavy and slurred with sleep.

“What is it?” she asked, tilting her head to see his face half-buried in his pillow, the eye not covered barely open.

She had to strain to catch his words. “For wishing to leave once you’ve married. That’s… ’s understandable.”

 _That_ was a thing that bothered him so much that it surfaced in his mind upon waking? Belle knew enough to know that he didn’t want her to go anywhere, and here he was, telling her that it was all right, if she wanted it. She thought back to their discussion of medical school and women pilots, and she felt that funny warmth beneath her breastbone again.

“Rummond, I have no intention of leaving,” she told him softly. “None at all.”

He turned his face a bit toward her. “No?” His brows drew together a little and lifted, and the expression on his face looked so young.

“No.” She shook her head. 

They were more of the barbs Nurse Mills had used to dig at him, she was certain. It sounded like the remarks the head nurse had made to her when she was reassigned.

She lifted her hand from his back, petting his hair, and realized she felt far too much gratification when he sighed in response. “Go back to sleep, now.”

Obediently, he closed his eyes, and between the difficult time he’d had and the medications she saw in his chart, she wasn’t terribly shocked when he actually dropped off again.

The rest of the night passed with surprising ease. Rummond didn’t wake again until the morning, and though she found herself without her textbook to pass the time, she discovered that watching him sleep wasn’t the worst substitute in the world.

She sent Nurse Boyd off with clear instructions on how to prepare a cup of tea for her patient, and the girl returned with it before clocking out. Once he’d had a sip, Belle excused herself with a promise to be back as soon as she possibly could. She had a thing or two to attend.

The head nurse’s office was open. Belle straightened her posture before going in.

“I want to be reassigned back to the east wing,” she said, unwilling to at all hedge around what she was there for.

Nurse Mills’ eyes didn’t leave the paperwork in front of her. She sneered her way through a short laugh, signing something before she eventually looked up. “What makes you imagine my answer would be any different than it was when you tried to finagle your way out of your new assignment two weeks ago?”

Belle frowned, seeing how this would go before even proceeding. “I feel that I do more, in the sense of actually helping patients, there.”

“So you think yourself better than the nurses who work with men who are _in reality_ wounded?”

She pushed down the resentment she felt at the head nurse’s not-so-subtle jibe toward the shell shock ward. “That isn’t the case at all. I simply wish to use my experience with the particular difficulties present on the east wing.”

“Then you will acquire _new_ experience.” Nurse Mills smiled, but there was not a trace of humor behind it. She snapped her pen down on the desk and stood, coming around to stand in front of Belle. The better to look down on her. “Not everyone has the luxury of changing their mind and running away in the wake of making an impulsive decision, Nurse French. You’ll have to live with it.”

She wasn’t sure that she understood how the head nurse’s rejoinder applied to her, and she stared after Nurse Mills as the maddening woman turned and stalked from the room without another word.

Undaunted, and as per her semi-formed plan, Belle made a beeline for Dr. Whale’s office. If he wasn’t already in, he would be very soon. She wasn’t too happy about having to go to him right now - not after the previous evening - but the situation was too dire to back up from it out of personal feelings. And he _was_ the administrator. As such, he had the only higher authority over the nurses than Nurse Mills.

She caught him as he was unlocking his door. “Dr. Whale, may I speak with you for a moment before rounds?”

“Of course,” he said, pushing his door open, and dropped his keys down the front pocket of his satchel. “Come in. What is it that you need?”

Belle followed him in, shutting the door, and waited for him to seat himself behind his desk. “I need to be reassigned back to the east ward. Immediately.”

“Why have you come to me, rather than taking it up with the head nurse?” he asked, giving her a cursory look from beneath his brow as he brought out a sheaf of papers from his bag and began flipping through them.

She hesitated. Tell him the truth, that she had already been turned down by Nurse Mills, or behave as if he were the first she’d spoken with about it? He gave the head nurse a free hand with her underlings, and the former might well mean that he would dismiss her with no further discussion. Her choice became an easy one.

“I don’t believe she would hear me out, nor be receptive to what I need.”

“This, still, Nurse French?” He frowned, as if her troubles with her superior were a terrible burden on _him_.

“No, sir. I simply mean- I want to be reassigned. That’s all.”

“Didn’t you have your assignment changed just a few days ago?” he asked. He pulled a couple of pieces of paper from the middle of the stack. “I recall you asking for an east wing assignment specifically, when the shell shock ward was opened. Why ask to be moved to another ward in the first place?”

“Two weeks,” she clarified the period of time. “I didn’t have it changed. Nurse Mills took it upon herself to alter my assignment.”

“Ah.” The doctor took a pen from its gilded holder above his blotter. “And you aren’t amenable to the change.”

“I feel that I’m not as effective on the general ward as I am with the shell shocked men.”

He gave her an amused look. “The general ward isn’t an easy one, is it?”

Belle pressed her lips together. She couldn’t tell him that the men’s behavior wasn’t her reasoning for asking to be given back her east ward assignment.

“The patients can be a bit… _rowdy_ , I know. But you know military.” He wrote something with a quick sling of his fountain pen before looking up at her again. “All right. Consider yourself back on duty in the east wing, Nurse French. I’ll push it through.”

Belle smiled, her shoulders sagging with relief. One worry down.

“Before I go,” she began, and the doctor raised his eyebrows in question. “May I ask - do you still plan to perform electric shock therapy on Captain Gold?”

Dr. Whale sat back in his chair, looking at her as if he wondered why she asked. “Tentatively. I’ll have a look at his progress over the next few days. I do feel that it will be an eventual necessity, judging from his past and relapses.”

“He’s doing much better this morning. I don’t believe it’s a needed-”

“And that is why you are a _nurse_ , Nurse French, and not a doctor. I have _formal medical training_.” He gave her a smile that was far too patronizing to make her comfortable. “I believe I’m far more qualified to make these judgements.”

She stepped forward as he turned his attention back to his paperwork, attempting to keep him from terminating the conversation so quickly. “I’m not sure you underst-”

“We are done here, I believe,” he replied without looking up.

“Of course. You’re right. Thank you for your time, Dr. Whale.”

“Any time, nurse,” he said, and she couldn’t help feeling that his dismissal was meant to serve as a reminder of her station.

As she left the office, she checked her watch. Graham might be in by now. If she could catch him before he clocked in…

His bicycle wasn’t in front of the building when she looked. She waited, standing just inside the front doors, popping the first joints of her fingers nervously, and wrung her hands when they would pop no more. At last, he came around the tall hedges that lined the hospital’s front lawn, leaning low and scattering a bit of gravel from the drive as he turned the corner hard. Dr. Hopper arrived right after, a slightly perturbed look on his face. 

She smiled. Children. They were children.

“Don’t clock in yet,” she said as Graham came up the steps. She greeted Dr. Hopper when he caught up. “Good morning, doctor.”

“Good morning, Nurse French.” He beamed, his face flushed, and paused for only a moment before continuing into the foyer.

Graham walked back inside with her. “And why can’t I clock in?”

“I need you to help me with something,” she said, heading toward the south wing with him following close behind.

“Have you been home?” he asked, noticing how worn around the edges she appeared. “Belle. Something happened?”

She lowered her voice and slowed her pace just enough for him to catch up. “Dr. Whale took Captain Gold in for ‘therapy’ last night.”

Graham seemed to forget how to walk right there in the middle of the corridor. 

“Come on!” she flicked a hand at him. “He’s fine. Dr. Whale didn’t get to go through with it.”

“What happened?” he asked, trotting to catch up again.

Belle gave him a sidelong look that all but screamed culpability.

“You? You stopped it? How?” Graham looked proud of her, and she smiled.

“I learned that I’m quite strong enough to swing a fire axe…” she murmured. “Dr. Whale might have you showing an electrician around the wiring today, by the way.”

“You didn’t.” He laughed, and when it tapered off, he asked, “I take it that means we won’t have lights today?”

“Not unless you take a lantern.”

Graham shook his head, and he realized the direction they were headed. “What are we doing?”

“I need you to keep lookout for me…” She looked over at him with a slightly wild grin.

“For…?”

“Do you want to be able to exercise plausible deniability?”

He snorted a laugh. “All right,” he said, and asked no more.

Belle slowed as they approached the room where she’d found Rummond the night before. She looked around the corner of the intersecting corridor, making sure that no one was around to see them. “Do you have your pocket knife?”

He slid a hand into his trouser pocket and brought out a knife with a pair of carved cherry panels along its handle. She knew it had been a gift. “I’ll be careful with it,” she said as she crossed the hallway and slipped into the room.

“Do what you need to do,” Graham told her before she closed the door.

The electric shock therapy room gave her chills. It was sparse, definitely not made for visual comfort, but it was the knowledge of what was done there that gave her a foreboding feeling.

She wasn’t sure how often anyone actually came into the room, but she knew that it didn’t see use every day. If Dr. Whale did decide not to go ahead and attempt treatment on Rummond, with luck it might well be weeks before anyone had a look at the machine again.

The hospital books were in the black, but only _just_ , after salaries, supplies, bills, and other expenses were paid. They hadn’t been able to afford new large equipment for ages, and she knew they wouldn’t be able afford the cost of a new electric shock device. She opened the box’s latch and lifted the lid.

Removing something simple from the inside wouldn’t be enough, she quickly decided. They might be able to find someone to fix it. Parts might be affordable. She bit her lip hard, looking down into the thing, and unfolded Graham’s pocket knife to pry up the wooden panel that was set down inside. She would need to inflict significant damage.

She grabbed a handful of wires and pulled. She wrapped the wires attached to the ends of the wands around her hand, yanking them out, and dropped the wands themselves on the floor. Using the knife, she unscrewed the bracket that held the coil into place, and pulled the coil out. Letting the copper wire-wrapped tube fall to the floor, she stopped it from rolling with her foot, and ground her heel down on it. She crushed the discs on the wands next. It was as much as she could do without destroying the wooden box, itself, and she didn’t want to do that.

She gathered everything and crammed it all back into the box, replaced the top panel, and closed the lid. Someone _would_ suspect, she knew. Nurse Mills and Dr. Whale, surely. But she would handle that when it happened. 

Belle looked into the hallway to make sure that it was still clear, and Graham waved her across. She placed his knife back in his hand, smiling nervously up at him. “I should get back to the ward. And you should clock in.”

“Did you-?”

She nodded. “As well as I could. I hope it’s enough.”


	37. Misreckoning

For the next couple of days, she barely took her eyes off Rummond while she was in the hospital, doing what errands she had to perform off-ward as quickly as it was possible to do them. Graham’s night shifts were currently nonexistent, but Ruby volunteered to come in late on her day off to pick one up after the situation was explained. Nurse Halloran had the night shift after, and though distractible and not yet one hundred percent caught onto her duties, she was trustworthy enough that Belle could be sure Ariel would call her if something went awry. After that, Ruby would take her normal Saturday night shift, and Belle could resume the 24-hour Sunday shift that had become her usual.

She trusted Nurse Nolan even less than before, which was quite the feat. It made her a bit nervous that Nurse Mills hadn’t spoken to her since she’d gone over her superior’s head to get reassigned. Belle would have had to be blind, though, not to catch the looks the woman cast her way. She caught a number of them searing into Rummond, as well.

In the wake of the night she’d cut the wiring, Rummond behaved oddly. Awkwardly. A slightly different variety of awkward than she was accustomed to from him. It made her wonder whether the kiss she’d given him had been unwanted or unwise, in his obviously altered and vulnerable state.

He did eat a bit, now and then; mostly tea and soup. On Thursday evening, she’d gently cajoled him into a couple of roast potatoes that came out with the herbed cod at dinner, and when they went over well, he tried a bit of the fish. She could have cried with the relief she felt when he not only managed to clear nearly half the plate, but kept it down.

Rummond was fully aware that Nurse French was cosseting him - and even more so than before. He liked the extra attention, and he longed for the moments in which he could bask in her presence, but he knew that he in no way deserved it. He felt the guilt of it every time she was called away to tend someone who legitimately _needed_ her assistance. 

Memories of the night she rescued him weren’t perfectly clear. They were fuzzy and jumped around, but he remembered more than enough. He remembered safety, kindness. He wished he could forget how she’d cleaned him up. As if her washing his muddy feet when he’d been out in the rain hadn’t been bad enough, she’d had to give him nearly a full wash after he-

He pulled the blankets higher, covering his mouth with a handful of the edge. She’d been _so kind_. Never had a single look of disgust crossed her face. Aside from favoring him a bit more, her behavior toward him hadn’t changed. She still set aside time to sit with him during meals, and he still looked forward to the moment when she finished her early rounds and came back to spend the minutes before she needed to start on her morning duties with him.

The sky beyond the window across the ward was beginning to lighten. If he started trying now, he thought he could have a decent bath and shave, and be back in his bunk by the time she came on shift. He turned onto his back, pushing the covers down with arms that didn’t necessarily want to do what he wanted them to, and began working to talk himself into sitting up.

Belle left home more than an hour early, having only the barest semblance of breakfast as she passed through the kitchen. Mrs. Potts had caught her long enough to get a bit of cold ham and sliced egg folded in a piece of bread into her hand and give her an affectionate swat on the bottom, the latter of which she’d received upon departing the kitchen ever since she could get into the room on her own. Sandwich held between her teeth, she adjusted her skirt to make room, and hopped onto the bicycle that rested just beside the kitchen’s back door.

Dawn had just properly broken when she leaned her bicycle against the side of the building and hurried up the front steps. A bulb remained on in the storage room to give the foyer a sliver of light; electricity had been restored only the afternoon before, not long after lunch. 

The hospital was almost as silent as during her night shifts, and she decided to appreciate the quiet until it broke. She felt the subtle beginnings of a headache behind her eyes. It wasn’t much of a surprise - she hadn’t gotten as much sleep as she thought she would. Donat had stayed late after dinner the previous evening. He and her father bantered over polo players, players’ horses, and their respective injuries for an hour and a half past the time she usually retired, before her father noticed her head bobbing and brought the attention to it that allowed her to excuse herself without offending her fiancé. He hadn’t yet said anything about the way they’d butted heads when he came to get her, but she could see him stewing over it. His smile was too tight, his hands too hard when he touched her, even in her father’s presence. She dreaded the time she would next have to be alone with him.

Rummond would likely still be asleep, she figured as she clocked in. She saw Nurse Mills’ time card in the rack to the right of the clock, and she indulged in scowling at it before turning to step back around the front desk, glad that the head nurse wasn’t in yet.

After a brief stop to place her purse on the supply closet shelf, she eased the ward door open, keeping as quiet as she could. A few of the men were up at this hour out of habit, though most still slept until rounds. She peered in and froze. Rummond was in the slow process of making his way back to his bed from the washroom.

Belle caught her lower lip between her teeth, the corners of her mouth pulling into a frown. She hadn’t seen him up and around any more than was necessary for trips to the lavatory. She watched, itching to help and knowing he wouldn’t thank her for it just now, as he limped across the room. He struggled not to put too much weight on his right leg, his fists clenching and releasing as he took steps, and his face pulled in pain with the turn he had to make around the end of Lieutenant Booth’s bed. When he reached his own space, he tossed his toiletry bag onto the bed, and held onto the end of the bedframe as he raised the lid of his footlocker to take something from inside. He stayed there for a moment after closing it again, and she realized he was resting with his weight shifted onto his good foot. Turning, he went back, lurching the couple of steps so that he could sit down.

“Oh, sweetheart…” she said under her breath, startling herself as the endearment slipped.

For the first time, she let her gaze linger at the scars on his leg. They were twisted, angry. A large, black and purple bruise had developed over the silvery pink marks. She looked away before he could catch her.

She stepped onto the ward, letting her shoes make just a little more noise than necessary, alerting him to her presence. When he looked up, she caught the smile that brightened his face, and she returned it as she went over to him. 

“Good morning,” she greeted, sweeping her hands over the back of her skirt as she sat down next to him.

His hair was still damp from being washed, the few drying strands lifting away on the air to reflect golden morning light just coming in. She could see the comb marks higher up, and she was a bit proud of him for all of it. She knew it couldn’t have been the easiest thing to drag himself up to accomplish it all, after the last couple of days. Much less the past two weeks as a whole.

He looked worn, and thin, and exhausted. But he smelled _lovely_. Something beyond soap and aftershave lotion, and she felt a sudden urge to bury her face in his hair.

Rummond grinned over at her, sock dangling half off his toes in distraction. “Morning, Nurse French.”

He looked down to tug his sock up. When he’d done and began gathering the other sock between his hands, she leaned, bumping his shoulder with hers. “Belle,” she said in a teasing whisper.

“Hm?” He turned his attention back to her.

“We did once agree to call one another by our given names,” she reminded.

“Oh. I thought perhaps, after…” he trailed off, shrugging one shoulder in a gesture far more offhand than he felt. “It might not be appropriate any longer.”

“It’s still appropriate,” she assured him.

He brought the other foot up to carefully rest at his knee, grimacing as he pulled his second sock on, straightening it carefully over the lower part of his scars. With ginger movements, he placed his foot back on the floor.

“I have something to ask you, and I don’t mean it as a slight or offense of any sort,” Belle preambled, giving him time to prepare - ideally without getting defensive. “You’re still having a little trouble getting around?”

He looked at her warily before flicking his eyes away from her again.

“Now, I’m not asking if you _want_ a cane,” she said gently, leaning to look at him when he ducked his head and turned a bit away, “or a crutch to help you. I’m asking if you _need_ one. Only as long as needed. Until your leg heals.”

It took a few very long moments, but he at last turned his head back toward her, if not looking at her square on, and gave her the barest of nods.

“Then I’ll find you something,” she said, reaching over to touch his arm. “Which would you rather have?”

He fiddled with one of the buttons on the cuff of his gown. It took a bit longer, but he answered quietly, “A cane. If I must.”

“Then I’ll find you a cane. I believe I know just where to get one.” Belle patted his knee, standing. She didn’t want him limping around unaided any longer than necessary. It would only make his leg worse. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

Stepping into the hallway, she nearly collided with Nurse Nolan on her way in.

“Nurse French,” Mary Margaret said after a nervous hesitation, when Belle didn’t speak first.

“Good morning,” Belle responded, her smile polite. “You’re in early.”

“There’s to be a meeting in Nurse Mills’ office before shift starts,” Nurse Nolan said. “Tell the nurses you see as they come in?”

“A new patient?” Belle asked, her stomach turning a bit around her breakfast with nerves. But surely the head nurse wouldn’t call all of the nurses on the ward together for a personal reprimand against one?

“Not that I’m aware of. It’s just a quick meeting to let everyone know Nurse Mills will be out over the next few days. And that I have her duties until she returns.” Nurse Nolan’s expression said that she wasn’t as sure of that detail.

Belle stared at her for a few seconds, not certain she’d heard correctly. _Days?_ She had never known the head nurse to miss a single shift. “She- Is she ill?” she asked, trying to appear sympathetic.

“Oh, no, nothing like that. She said that her sister requires a trip out to the country for her health. The family has a farmhouse and land somewhere in Oxfordshire.”

“Ah,” Belle replied with a nod. She was unaware that Nurse Mills _had_ a sister. It certainly was a day for surprises. 

She and Nurse Nolan stepped around one another, and Belle headed toward the front desk. Unsurprised to see Nurse Lind now in her usual spot - Mal was the only one who arrived earlier than Nurse Mills as a habit - she smiled in greeting and leaned her arms on the counter.

“I’m looking for a cane,” she said.

Nurse Lind smirked. “Why, your legs look just fine to me.”

Belle shook her head, smiling. “For a _patient_.”

“ _Oh_ , well, in that case.” Mal chuckled, pretending to have been corrected. “Have a look in the lost and found. There are a handful in a box with the umbrellas and shoes.”

She went around the side of the desk and into the storage room, looking up at the axe on its hangers with a grin. The box was easy to find; it was the only one left with its flaps open, the rest of the boxes closed neatly to surround it. There were a couple of walking sticks that didn’t look as if they could support much, and a swagger stick that would be of no help at all. She chose a crook-handle cane that had been left unclaimed when a gentleman passed on the burn ward a while back. It wasn’t the most attractive, but it appeared in the best shape, and seemed sturdiest of what was there.

Belle carried the cane under her arm on the way back, and she found Rummond sitting in the same position she’d left him. “How is this?” she asked, offering it to him.

He took the cane and she sat next to him, settling herself a bit more closely. “It will serve,” he said as he tried it in his hand, seeing if he could get a feel for it. He let it stretch out in front of him, then brought it upright again, resting both hands on top. “You don’t have to do this.”

She frowned a little in confusion. “Getting you a cane?”

“Tending me.”

“Rummond…” She laughed softly, and when he looked to her with confusion of his own, she went on. “I’m a nurse. I’m meant to tend you.”

“Not like this. You do too much. I don’t-” He shook his head. _I don’t deserve so much._

“Well, I happen to think it isn’t enough.” She smiled, turning the way she sat to better face him. “Besides, I don’t _have_ to. I want to. Indulge me. Allow me to favor my favorite patient, hm?” she said as if she teased, hoping that he could see the truth there in it.

He turned his face away, his shoulders pulling inward a little, and he looked as if he struggled to say something. It wasn’t the reaction she’d hoped for.

“Rummond?” she asked, not sure why anything she’d said had caused the change in him. She placed a hand on his arm, but he wouldn’t look up at her.

When he finally spoke again, he sounded strained and small. “I don’t want you to keep company with me out of some sense of pity. I don’t want to be that sort of pet.”

“I-” she began, still trying to puzzle him out. “That isn’t what I meant. I don’t pity you.”

“I heard you,” he admitted. “You and Humbert. I heard what you said.”

She remembered this - it had been a part of their argument before she stormed off the ward. She hadn’t reacted well, and neither had he. Perhaps this time, with cooler heads and apologies having been rendered… “I don’t understand. What did you hear?”

“‘Poor thing,’” he repeated her words, the ones that had gnawed at him so. “‘Poor man. Barely keeps his head above water.’”

He spoke so quietly, she had to lean nearer.

“The two of you, you were talking about some things that couldn’t be handled. About finding a permanent hospital. About how sad it is to watch. ‘It isn’t fair at all, poor thing.’” His hands shook, and he clenched them more tightly around the cane handle.

“When did I-?” Belle looked down for a moment, at the weave of the blankets bunched behind him on his bed, thinking. “That was… _months_ ago.”

Rummond shook his head slowly. “Not all of it. You and he spoke about it not long before you left the ward.”

“That makes no matter!” She shook her head right back at him, waving a hand as if she could clear everything up with the gesture, if she tried. “I wasn’t talking about you!”

He frowned. Of course she was. She’d looked right at him - she and Humbert both had. “I _heard_ you.”

“Rummond,” she said, lifting her hand to curl her fingers over his wrist, tugging his hand away from the cane. “Rummond, look at me, please?”

Reluctantly, he looked at her, though it was a bit askance. 

“I was not talking about you,” she said, moving her other hand to take his in it, and lowered her voice to a whisper. It was a confidence she was bending a bit, but she wouldn’t allow him to go on thinking she’d said such things about _him_. “Graham and I, we were talking about Dr. Hopper. His father died a few months ago - do you remember?”

His expression was still doubtful, but she could tell that he listened.

“He and his parents didn’t have a happy relationship. For many reasons, but what it boils down to is, they were not good people at all. When his father died, his mother was left in a great deal of financial trouble, because his father’s rotten business dealings were found out,” Belle explained, holding onto Rummond’s hand and his gaze as he turned his head further toward her. “The things I said, they were because Dr. Hopper was either going to have to move his mother in with him, or set her up somewhere else. But he hasn’t the money to support an entire house for her, and he won’t allow her to go out on the streets or into the poorhouse. He’s wound up with her living with him. She’s _still_ not a good person, and he’s miserable with the situation, but she has some form of senile dementia. She can’t be alone for any period of time. Dr. Hopper is having to pay a nurse to stay with her while he’s at work.”

Rummond relaxed a bit, the feeling that he should pull away from her fading as she spoke quietly to him. Her explanation made sense, on all counts, but it was her urgency for him to believe her that convinced him most.

“Graham has been trying to convince him to commit her to a hospital specialized to the elderly, because she’s gotten to a point where she can’t take care of herself at all. _That’s_ who we were talking about.” Belle sighed, sitting back again. She hated that he believed what he had for so long. His side of their argument made so much more sense, now.

“I assumed…” he murmured, the crease between his brows softening. “You looked at me when you were saying it.”

“And that couldn’t possibly be because I simply wanted to look at you?” she said before thinking. Her face warmed, and she was sure that she saw a blush also rise in his cheeks, even in the hazy light. An endearment tried to bring itself to her lips again, but she swallowed the word. “You thought we were talking about _you_? All this time?” 

He looked away from her, down at their hands. His drying hair fell to only half hide his face from her. 

Belle reached up, touching his cheek, and warmth went through the rest of her when his head tilted toward her contact. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you’d overheard, and it didn’t occur to me that you might think that. If I had…” She shook her head, smiling a little. “Well, first of all, I’d have told you how silly you are.”

A hiccup went through him, and she knew it for a laugh. 

“Do you feel better?” she asked, “Knowing?”

He opened his eyes, returning a sheepish smile, and he nodded.

She reveled in his smile, and in the soft, cleanshaven warmth of his cheek under her fingers for a little longer before letting her hand fall to her lap. Breakfast wouldn’t be out for a while yet, so she resisted bringing it up. She wanted to keep his mood light for as long as possible.

“My shift doesn’t begin for another half hour,” she said, and the way his smile broadened told her that the delay was more than fine with him. “How does a cup of tea sound?”

Rummond tilted his head back and forth a little. “I suppose I could do with some tea.”

“All right, then. Tea.” She squeezed his hand, shifting so that she could rise. “And then I want to hear where you’ve most recently stopped in your book.”

“Last I recall, I happened across a declaration that, ‘a person can be both a cannibal and a decent man,’” he recited, the phrase coming easily to mind with the amusement it had given him. “Something I confess I’ve never before had occasion to consider.”

“Not until I get back!” she censured playfully, replacing his hand on his own lap before she stood, and looked back over her shoulder to find him watching her go.


	38. Departure

Despite limiting his movements, despite getting no better, for a full week after Belle came back to the ward, Rummond claimed that the injury to his leg was no more than a particularly terrible bruise.

“Your leg is healing, hm?” she said skeptically, walking next to him on his slow path back to his bed. She wasn’t sure whether he wanted to believe this insistence that there had been no real damage done, or whether he simply wanted to keep everyone away from it. Either way, she was unwilling to let it go.

“It’s _fine_. Doing quite a bit better, in actual fact,” Rummond grumbled. He was contradicted by a yelp of pain when, distracted, he sat without taking the weight off his right leg. Scowling, he reached down to press his hand over it out of instinct.

Belle gave him a dry look. “Yes, it appears as if you might be rid of the cane any day now.”

“It’s just fine…” he repeated, though the sternness had gone out of his voice.

“If you would just let me check it?” she asked. “It would take only a moment.”

“Check it _how?”_

“I would need to touch the area.” She knew how unlikely that was, and the hesitant look he turned on her spoke volumes. She watched as his free hand began to fidget.

He looked back down at his leg, considering. She wouldn’t hurt him out of malice - he knew that. As much as he blustered about it being naught but a bruise, he did worry. Every time it twinged without so much as having moved, every time it woke him hurting, he worried over what he might have done to the bone. But the idea of her being forced to touch those mangled scars...

“All right,” he agreed quietly, moving the cane to lean between his table and bed, out of the way.

Belle gaped at him for a second. She’d expected more of a fight. “Here, put your legs up, then,” she said when she’d recovered her tongue.

He turned, stretching out on the sheet, next to the great wrinkle of blankets he’d left aside when he got out of bed. She sat next to his legs, one foot tucked beneath her in a position that meant she could easily reach. 

She moved slowly, so that he could predict her intentions. First lifting away the edges of his robe under his watchful eye, then folding the hem of his gown higher, she exposed his leg to the knee. It was the first time she’d been able to see it so clearly and closely, let alone touch it with bare hands. She wondered how much it must be costing him to allow her to do either.

Carefully, she palpated the bruised part of his leg while he clenched his jaw in an attempt to keep from showing how it hurt. Splitting her attention between his leg and his face, Belle saw as the shame in his expression turned to pain. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, giving him a reassuring smile. “It won’t take long.”

The scarring was soft under her fingers, for the most part - a healthy, deep pink under the light hair on his leg. They were raised, but not hard. The only area that was anywhere near toughened was the entrance and exit of the bullet that had inflicted the original damage, where it was heaviest. The surgical incisions and the scars where the bone had been exposed had a silver sheen to them. They were made by a skilled enough hand, though she could tell the doctor hadn’t been as careful as he should have been. She was aware of Rummond’s eyes on her face, and she was careful to keep her expression on the pleasant side of neutral. 

There was swelling, and it extended deeply into the tissue, but that was likely the bruise. She would need to press more firmly to get a better idea of the bone, itself.

“This will hurt,” she warned, and gave him time to brace himself for it. When he nodded, she dug her fingertips in a bit. Her practiced fingers found a harder knot, and by the time Rummond whimpered and drew a pained gasp, she was done.

Belle sat back and sighed. “I think it must have been fractured again. It doesn’t feel separated. Of course, if it were, you wouldn’t be walking on it.” She folded his gown back down.

He wasn’t surprised, really. Not with the way it felt. His brows drew together, and when he spoke, he was quiet and hesitant. “That- that doesn’t mean it’ll need to be cut into again, does it?”

“No, surgery wouldn’t be a help, not with this. It will heal on its own, if you look after it,” she said, looking up at him. “You should stay off of it. And it really should be in a cast.”

“You are _not_ putting a bloody cast on me,” he scoffed at the suggestion. He hadn’t been in a cast since they’d fixed it the first time, and he wouldn’t have that particular misery again.

“No, I expected not.” Belle gave him a patient half-grin. “You should allow me to wrap it, at the very least.”

Rummond reached for the blankets and tugged the edge from beneath her, twitching them back over his legs. They bunched up against her hip. “It’ll be fine with some rest.”

“And has it gotten so much better in the week you’ve barely used it, then?”

He gave her a bit of a glare, knowing good and well that it hadn’t.

“Rummond… The previous injury…” she began, frowning in her own worry. “You know it didn’t heal all that well.”

“Yes. I realize that,” he snapped, moving his injured leg another inch away from her, and grimaced with the movement.

“Layering another injury on top of that, or perhaps even re-injuring an area that was weak from malhealing, it might-” She saw the way he looked at her. He knew; he was just begging her not to say it aloud. He might never again be able to walk without a cane.

“It gets a bit better every day,” he claimed weakly. 

Belle sighed. She nodded, patting his knee through the bedclothes. “It would get better all the more quickly, if you would let me wrap it,” she coaxed.

He held firm for a long moment, but she could see when he gave. “Fine, then. Wrap it,” he said. “If it’ll keep you from harping on it.”

His face was soft, the gruffness of his answer aside. She wasted no time, lest he change his mind, and went right away to fetch her supplies. 

Belle returned with a tray occupied on one side by a small basin of steaming water, and on the other with rolls of what appeared to be different fashions of gauze. It looked much like the method by which he’d ended up with a cast, and he frowned.

“I’ll need that leg again,” she told him almost cheerfully, and she waited while he pulled the covers back once more. “Over the side of the bed.”

“You said you were only wrapping it.” He nodded at the tray as he sat up on the side of the bed.

“I am.” She set her supplies next to him on the mattress, pulling her skirt so that she could kneel comfortably. Finding him apprehensive all over again, she asked, “What’s the matter?”

“I do know what cast supplies look like.”

“Some of them are the same.” Belle nodded, reaching to take a roll of something far smaller and thicker than gauze. She scooted in a little closer, curling her hand behind his heel, and gently set his foot to rest near her knee. “I won’t be wrapping it as heavily as a cast, though.”

She pulled out a length of the narrow strip of stout cotton fabric, measuring it by laying it lengthwise down his leg, next to his shin bone, and snipped it off near the bottom of his foot. Leaving it there, she next took a roll of plain, dry gauze.

“What is that meant for?” he asked.

“The strip? So that I can remove everything easily.” She unrolled the gauze a bit, beginning by wrapping it under the ball of his foot, and caught the strip as she worked her way up with the light layer.

“And how does that work?”

“With a scissor,” she told him, glad that he was talking rather than silently roiling in anxiety. “When the time comes, I’ll be able to lift it away from your skin a bit. That way, I’ll be able to see what I’m doing with the blades, and there will be less danger of hurting you.”

Rummond tilted his head as she wrapped over the curve of his calf before cutting the gauze. “They didn’t do that before.”

She smiled up at him, quite proud of knowing this detail that made cutting away casts and wrappings easier and safer on a patient. “They should have,” she deemed.

Belle took one of the rolls of starched gauze, and reached over to dip it into the hot water. She squeezed the excess from it, then searched for the end. “Is your leg comfortable? It doesn’t hurt in this position?”

He nodded. “It’s fine,” he said, and he received a level look from her. “It doesn’t hurt, just there,” he continued. The medic who had applied his cast in the field hospital hadn’t asked.

She wrapped from his toes, up, not too tightly, keeping the gauze overlapped by half on each rotation.

“That feels suspiciously like a cast…” he muttered, trying to flex his foot and feeling resistance.

“It is no such thing,” she said as she worked.

“A mere bandage _moves_.”

“And you can move in this.”

“Barely.”

“Hush, or your mouth is next.”

He gave her a bit of a glower, but she spied a smirk at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m not wrapping it so thickly that you won’t be able to move when it’s dried,”she explained to him.

“We shall see,” he almost singsonged, and she pulled her lips into her mouth over her grin. “How long will I have to endure this?”

“A few days. Perhaps a week,” she said. If it seemed to be helping, she thought she might leave it on for two. But she didn’t tell him so, worried that he might begin unwinding it as quickly as she applied it, if she did.

She heard the ward door open. Looking up at Rummond, she found no alarm on his face, so she didn’t turn. As the footsteps grew closer, she realized they sounded like Jefferson’s.

Sure enough, he pranced by, stopping just long enough to place his hands on either side of Belle’s head and drop a very loud kiss atop her cap. She ducked in surprise, looking up at him as he went around to his bed. “What a good mood you’re in,” she observed.

“I ought to be!” he said, beaming. “I’ve been in with the good Dr. Hopper. I’ll soon see this place fall behind me.”

Belle’s hands paused at their work. Rummond tried to turn where he sat, but she placed a hand on his knee. “Stay still,” she said. “I haven’t finished.”

She looked around him to see Jefferson, who was in the process of emptying his table drawer onto the bed. “Dr. Hopper has discharged you?”

“He has, indeed! I called Alice on my way past the front desk, and I’ll be home before lunchtime tomorrow.” He looked over at her as he headed toward his footlocker, and his smile was so broad, she could practically see his back teeth.

“That’s wonderful!” Belle smiled back at him, reaching for the other roll of starched gauze on the tray, and soaked it the same as the first.

Rummond nodded. “That is a thing, indeed,” he said, doing his best to muster congratulations. Lieutenant Hargreaves hadn’t been an unpleasant bunkmate. As good a turn as it was for Jefferson to be released, he wasn’t exactly thrilled to see him go.

Graham came in, carrying a suitcase in one hand and the box holding Jefferson’s stored belongings beneath the opposite arm. Jefferson took them, popping open the latches of the brown leather suitcase and tossing the curved lid back. He began moving the contents of his footlocker, waving Graham away when the orderly offered to help.

“Need anything?” Graham asked, stepping back around to stand next to Belle.

She shook her head. “We’re doing all right,” she said, grinning up at Rummond. He looked at her, but he didn’t return her smile. His hands twisted themselves up in his robe belt. 

Belle exchanged a look with Graham. “I’ve some chores of my own to do, then,” he said, catching onto her silent request for privacy.

“How long has he been here?” Rummond asked under his breath.

She finished wrapping his leg, and began running her hands over the damp gauze to smooth it. “A little over six months. About the average,” she whispered back to him. “Some stay a shorter time, some longer.”

“I know what ‘average’ means,” he murmured. “And Jezek?”

Belle glanced over to where the gruff bombardier hunkered on the edge of his own bed. “Nine. But he had a relapse not long before he was meant to leave.”

He gestured with a tilt of his head toward the bunk directly behind her, mouthing the name, “Booth?”

“He admitted himself just a couple of weeks before you came in.”

Rummond was quiet, watching as she smoothed her hands across the white wrappings, and he listened to the soft scrabbling of Lieutenant Hargreaves behind him. He _was_ glad for the boy getting to go home. He was. But he was also a bit jealous that the Lieutenant was so well-healed. That he had a wife and child and a home to go back to went without saying.

He looked over at the borrowed book on his bedside table. “Lieutenant,” he said, taking it, and turned enough to hold it out toward the space between their bunks.

Jefferson looked over, shaking his head, and waved it off. “No, I’ve read it. You keep it. You’ve bonded with it.” He grinned, tossing a stray slipper over into the suitcase that sprawled open on his mattress.

Rummond faced forward again, setting the book back in its usual place on the corner of his table. He nudged it square.

Belle found the lighter spirit she’d been so happy to see in him becoming heavy again, the brightness of his smile having left his face. He stared at his lap.

She wanted to reach for his hands, but her fingers were sticky with starch. She curled her fingers around his calf, leaving them still until he noticed. It took him a few moments, but he looked at her hands, then up to her face. She gave him a smile. “That _will_ be you, one day in the not-so-distant future,” she promised.

He tried to smile back to her. The corner of his mouth flickered with the attempt, but he didn’t quite manage it. Instead, he nodded a little, shifting his eyes away from hers again.


	39. Longing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by an Anon and standbyyourmantis, with anonymousnerdgirl and tinuviel-undomiel _strongly_ encouraging. This actually earned the fic an explicit rating a whole bunch of chapters before I thought it would.

* * *

The world felt soft and warm and too comfortable. The way he remembered it being on weekend mornings a lifetime ago, when he was on leave, and could wake and still spend another hour in bed. He could breathe. And perhaps that should have been an indication of the state of things, right off.

Awareness of his surroundings coalesced slowly. His bunk and blankets, then the ward beyond. It was sometime after dawn, lit as the room was in warm golden sunshine, though he couldn’t quite find the windows. Belle stood over him, smiling and clad in layers of ruffled white lace in the form of a nightgown, her hair turned up with beaded ribbons and headbands in the style society girls were wearing. Sparkling eyes and cupid’s bow smile, she looked nothing more than some fae creature caught out of its ring.

He took a breath to speak, and he was no longer alone in his bed. Beneath the blankets with him, he could tell that she was bare, could feel her skin on his, but he couldn’t _see_. She smiled down at him and began to move, her hands splayed flat on his chest as she rocked her hips. He wanted to reach up, to set his hands at her waist, to cup her breasts - _something_ \- but they couldn’t seem to bridge the distance. She was right there, and he ached to touch her, but his hands wouldn’t reach.

She moved more quickly, her mouth fallen open into a little ‘O,’ and though he could tell that she made noises, he couldn’t hear them. He tried to shape her name with his own mouth, but his voice made no more disturbance on the air than hers. Fire spread under his skin, tension building, bending, hovering on the breaking point, and he tried desperately to reach for her again before-

Rummond woke himself with some sound, recognizing immediately what had happened.

Uncurling and turning onto his back, he lifted the edge of the blankets, and dropped his head onto his pillow again with eyes clamped shut. He sat up and pushed his covers back, reaching for the cane to help him to his feet. The ward was near pitch black, and he had to feel his way along the edge of the mattress to his footlocker. Quietly as possible, he retrieved a clean pair of underwear, and headed toward the privy.

Door safely closed, he switched on the small ceiling bulb. He caught the bend of the cane on the sink’s rim next to the faucet, and placed the small square of cotton that his underwear came back from the laundry folded into on the ledge. After turning the tap on to wait for the heater to send up warm water, he raised the front of his gown, checking it, and smelled it for good measure. Nothing. Thank heavens. Imagining the embarrassment of having to ask one of the night nurses for a clean hospital gown, he cringed.

His underthings were another matter. He unbuttoned the neck of his gown and pulled it off over his head, laying it across the side of the bathtub to keep it clean. With a grimace, he peeled out of his cold underwear. He reached to raise the lid of the laundry basket next to the bath, to drop them in.

A hospital full of men, it couldn’t be the first time the laundresses received such in the wash. He took a cloth down from the cupboard, wetting it to clean himself. The garment was a hospital issue pair; it wasn’t as if anyone could pin it on him. _Still_. It was humiliating to wake in the midst of a wet dream as though he were an adolescent. Apparently the list of things about himself he could claim to have control over grew shorter and shorter.

He took his underwear and shook them open. It _had_ been a nice dream, though, even if strange. Leaning on the sink to take some weight off his wrapped right leg, he quickly looped the leg hole over his left foot, then bent to work out the other side. The way she’d smiled at him, the way her hands had felt, pressing down on his chest as she moved - no, it had been _so much more_ than nice. He pulled his underwear up around his hips and stopped. 

Oh, that was utterly unhelpful. Rummond looked down at himself in accusation. He was half hard again, and it was still progressing. The night would only repeat itself, if he left it and returned to his bunk. He looked back at the door, and reached to turn the lock. It would be quick. He could get it done with and be back in bed, perhaps even before anyone noticed that he’d been out.

He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had a tug at himself. It wasn’t something he was given to, as a habit. But that dream… He groaned softly, the image of Belle slipping back into his thoughts. Bracing one hand against the wall adjacent to the sink to balance himself, he wrapped the other around his cock, and it took only a conscious thought of her to have him fully hard.

Rummond remembered how it felt when Belle ran the washcloth over his skin in the darkened examination room, the shape of her hand beneath. He drew his foreskin back, cool air on the sensitive head sending a pleasant shiver up his spine. The way she’d had the two of them lean close together, so that she could reach. Her breath on his shoulder. The feeling of her cloth-covered fingers along his backbone - and God, what he would give to feel her bare hands. He thought of the lower lip that she caught between her teeth, and imagined holding it between his own lips, licking his way into her warm mouth. His hand squeezed tighter, and he swallowed hard over a dry throat. Closing his eyes and letting his head drop forward, he loosened his grip a bit, beginning to move his hand. He thought of the way her breasts filled out the top of her apron with a slight swell, and how he might cup them, might use his mouth on them.

He drew a stuttering breath, and he remembered how her lips parted in his dream. He thought of what her skin would feel like, soft and yielding, holding her waist between his hands. What her hips and bottom might look like uncovered, lovely as she was to witness walking up and down the ward. He pulled harder at himself, moving faster, twisting his hand as he went. 

Rummond’s breathing quickened, heart thumping behind his ribcage. He imagined her parting her thighs, and the slick, pink core of her hidden between - kind, beautiful Belle, welcoming him into her arms, into her body, and his hips jerked toward his working hand. He felt the heat deep in his belly, the tingling in his limbs becoming more intense as he grew closer - that feeling at the base of his spine, coiling tight.

_”God,”_ he grit out, _“please…”_

He let his imagination unwind further in an attempt to get there quickly. He thought of her legs wrapped around him, of feeling their bellies pressed together and her breasts against his chest. He thought of her head tilting back, of Belle looking at him with those big blue eyes, mouth open in cries of pleasure as he slid into her. He thought of what she might look like if he could make her orgasm… 

That did him in, sending him over the edge. Rummond turned his head, burying his face against his raised upper arm to smother a low groan and a whimper, and he felt his cock twitch in his hand as he came.

He turned and sat down on the toilet lid with a far too loud _thunk_ of the seat, but his legs seemed to have turned to jelly. His insides felt shaky, weak. As ridiculous as it was, what he’d done was likely farther than he should have been pushing himself just yet. He leaned his forearms against his knees, catching his breath.

There was a short knock on the door, twice in quick succession, nearly startling him out of his skin.

“Are you all right in there, Captain?” Nurse Halloran’s hushed voice filtered through.

“Fine!” he sputtered, face burning. “I’m fine! I’ll be right out.”

He hadn’t realized the flighty young nurse could remember his name yet, much less that she’d been paying enough attention to know where he was. She was growing into her job, but this was a fine night to show it.

Rummond reached across for the damp cloth he’d cleaned up with, using it again despite it having long gone cold. He stood and finished pulling his underwear up, tucking himself away. 

Leaning an arm on the sink, he bent down, using the washcloth to wipe where his spendings had landed low on the wall and floor. He folded the cloth in half and wiped it over again, cursing himself for not thinking in the first place where it would end up. Tossing it into the basket - and silently apologizing to whomever would be taking care of this particular load of laundry - he gave his hands a good wash and went back for his gown, pulling it on. 

His hands shook, and he had to stop to take a deep breath in an attempt to calm, before he could get his buttons done up again. Finally, buttoned up and cane in hand, he unlocked the door onto a ward just as dark as he’d left it. Nurse Halloran didn’t still hover, at least. He returned to his bunk and crawled beneath the covers. Thankfully, nothing on his gown meant nothing on his sheets. 

It took moments for guilt to begin scratching at him, claws gaining purchase. What had he just done? He’d dreamed of _Belle_ in such a way, and he’d gone on to think of her while… 

Knowing what she would think of him if she knew turned his stomach. He curled on his side again, drawing his blankets high, and moved his hands to cover his ears.

_Filthy, lecherous thing_. And how _stupid_ he was, to so much as imagine she would ever have him. She already had a lad - the one for whom the word ‘strapping’ was the utmost understatement. And him… Well, he was a puny thing. Ugly. Old, mad, crippled. Each worse than the one before it. He was disgusting for taking her kindnesses and turning them into something to pull on himself over.

He curled smaller, pulling his knees in closer, his heart sinking. For the rest of the night, his mind raced back and forth between what a lovely impossibility the dream had been, and guilt over having enjoyed it so much and what he’d done afterward. It was almost a relief to not be able to fall asleep; he was afraid it would happen again, anyway, if he had.

He was looking at the doors when Belle walked through them, and of course she made a beeline directly for him. Rummond wished he could drop right through the floor.

Belle came onto the ward and found Rummond still lying abed, covered nearly to his eyelids. Her rounds could wait a few moments - she could see to him first, today. He had recently gone back to sitting up by the time she clocked in, usually having visited the washroom for his morning ritual by this time. That she found him this way again gave her a nagging worry that he might so quickly be headed for another downswing.

She perched on the side of the bed, where there was space next to his knees. “Good morning,” she said, and leaned to give him a smile. He flicked his eyes toward his pillow. She reached over, moving his hair away from his face, subtly checking how warm his skin was with a lingering sweep of the backs of her fingers over the nearer side of his forehead. He shrank back a bit, and though his face was flushed, he didn’t seem overly warm. “Are you not feeling well?”

“I’m fine.” His words were muffled. It wasn’t a terribly convincing claim.

He had a fearful, distressed look about his face, and he wouldn’t meet her eyes, which worried her all the more. “Did you sleep?”

“Some,” Rummond murmured from behind the blanket. Her hand moved, and he was grateful. He enjoyed her touch, _wanted_ it, and God, after last night, he couldn’t allow himself to.

Belle tried gently to pull the covers away from his face, but she stopped when he resisted. She wouldn’t force him. “Do you think you might feel like eating something? I know breakfast isn’t your favorite, but I have it on good authority that you may just appreciate what’s being sent up this morning,” she tempted. 

He frowned, glad that his mouth was hidden. His stomach gave a nauseating lurch at the thought of food of any sort. His eyes darted to her face for a half second before shifting away again. 

“I’ll try,” he said after a long hesitation. It was all he could manage, as far as promises, but he couldn't bear to make an even further disappointment of himself.


	40. In Passing

Dr. Hopper was cycling quickly through patients, planning his day so that he could give each of the thirty-one men currently on the east ward twenty minutes, scheduled from most to least emotionally volatile. It seemed enough to gauge their state, while still managing to get home somewhere around dark. He had a _long_ day ahead of him.

He’d been awakened with the news just before seven, Whale himself asking him to come in. It had been as rousting as a slap to the face. In spite of knowing with some amount of certainty that he had done all he could, he couldn’t help wondering. Had he missed something? Was there something he could have done?

It was Sunday, and three patients already had come in with their wives. While it wasn’t a bad idea to involve family in such therapy, he learned long ago that there were certain topics on which he wouldn’t receive a perfectly honest answer, when a patient was being observed by their spouse.

Captain Gold was within the first dozen called in. “I apologize for not having the time to ease into discussion today, Captain,” the doctor said, standing behind his desk in greeting. Meeting everyone at the door was a luxury that cost minutes he couldn’t afford today. He gestured to the area across from him.

Dr. Hopper called it a small victory that he’d felt comfortable placing the Captain’s name even that far down the list, with all he had lately endured. Still, his patient appeared unsettled upon claiming his usual place in the corner of the sofa.

Rummond nodded, the fingers of his right hand fidgeting between the sofa arm and his leg. “Understandable,” he said quietly.

“How are you doing this morning?” the doctor asked - and wasn’t that a loaded question.

“Oh, _peachy_ ,” he grumbled. When the doctor’s concerned expression narrowed into a frown, Rummond shifted his eyes toward the window. “Alive, at least. I suppose that’s more than some can say, isn’t it?”

“Can you tell me about your day thus far?”

“Quiet.” 

It was unusual for a Sunday to be so sedate, but news had gotten around to families quickly. Children were being kept particularly close, and visitors whose patients were in the far corner of the ward had opted to move to the space at the front of the room, sitting in small clusters of chairs.

Dr. Hopper wouldn’t let him go with such a simplistic answer. “Where were you when Lieutenant Taellelys was found?” he asked, giving no room for dodging.

Rummond watched a greenfinch in the tree outside the office. It had flown up from the ground with some sort of seed in its beak, proceeding to peck it against the branch to break it open. The thin limb shuddered, shedding a few orange and brown leaves, and the bird succeeded. Twitching its head, it got rid of the hull in slivers, and munched happily on the kernel. It dropped itself from the tree again with a flutter, and Rummond lost his distraction. 

“In my bunk,” he said. “He was found before sunrise. Most everyone was asleep, or trying.” He’d been in the latter group, himself, until the sound of Nurse Lucas’ shoes clattering back up the other aisle at a run alarmed him.

It had been the nurse’s last walk of the ward for the night, half past five. The blonde nurse from the front desk had come in only seconds after and turned on the lights, calling, “Stay in your beds!” to the servicemen fussing about their rude awakening. She went back down the way Nurse Lucas came. He heard her gasp a shocked, “Jesus, Mary, Joseph,” and directly after, “Back to your bed!” before she hurried out again.

He’d sat up and stretched to see what was going on, but the corner the nurses had gone back and forth from was blocked by a post and too much space between. “What’s happened?” he asked across to Jezek.

“Sounds like somebody’s dead,” Jezek had responded, sitting up on the side of his bunk.

“Captain Gold?” Dr. Hopper asked.

Rummond blinked. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear. Did you-?”

The doctor regarded him for a moment before continuing. “I asked whether you saw anything before the Lieutenant was moved?”

“No.” He shook his head. “His bunk is too far across the ward.”

“You weren’t one of the men who went over?”

“I stayed where I was told. The nurses and orderlies attended to things quickly.” He looked down, realizing how his fingers rubbed, and stopped himself in favor of fiddling with the end of his robe belt. “They’re prompt, I’ll give them that. It wasn’t twenty minutes after Nurse Lucas found the boy that they carried him out.”

He had watched a pair of orderlies take the Lieutenant’s sheet-wrapped body from the ward on a stretcher. Soon after, one of them came back and took the mattress away, folded in half to hide the worst of it. Someone had called the bleary-eyed little priest who visited on Sundays, anyway, to come down before dawn to be available to the patients.

“It’s a terrible thing, waking to something like this,” Dr. Hopper observed, watching his patient closely. Despite the condition that the men admitted to the east ward were often in upon arrival, they had surprisingly few deaths of this kind. In his four years at Firefly Hill, there had been only three. _Any_ number was too many, but it was fewer than reported by most other hospitals that took on shell shock victims.

He waited for his patient to respond, but his attention had strayed to his hands again. “Can you tell me what you’re feeling right now?”

Rummond’s expression changed, his brow drawing and the corners of his mouth turning down as he tried to pinpoint what the doctor asked. It was with dismay and guilt that he figured it out. 

He had never really met the Lieutenant. The boy’s bed was on the far end and other side of the ward. He might have lain eyes on him for a few seconds a couple of times a week. But Taellelys’ death shook him nonetheless. He quite intimately knew the thoughts that tempted one to do rather such a permanent thing, and how close _he_ had come to it. To have been in the same room when someone there for the same reasons succeeded… And with no one knowing. Sometime in the hour between Nurse Lucas’ checks, the boy had done himself in. No one had heard nor seen. No one had the opportunity to help. Even here it was that easy to go, if he decided to.

“Relief,” he told the doctor softly, expecting to be met with disgust for admitting it. “Nervous.”

Dr. Hopper answered with gentleness in his voice. “Why relief, Captain? Why nervousness?”

“And upset. Sad for the boy’s parents. But…” He pulled the belt’s loose end through his hand, pinching the fabric hard between his index finger and thumb as it went. “Relief that it wasn’t me. That I haven’t done the same. Nervous that I could, that I’ve considered it.” That he still did, some days.

“Your feelings make a great deal of sense,” the doctor acknowledged. “You told me very early on that you’ve had similar thoughts. Most of the patients I treat here have, at one point or another. It’s why I have every patient in my office at least three times a week, and why night nurses walk the ward on each hour. It’s the very reason we watch the east ward so closely.”

“But all that didn’t work this time, did it?” His response was harsher than he felt, and he regretted speaking it aloud as soon as he had. It wasn’t the doctor’s fault, any of it.

“No,” Dr. Hopper sighed, sitting back. “No, it didn’t.”

Rummond looked out the window again. There were a few tiny birds on the lawn, but he couldn’t tell what they were. Titmice, perhaps, the way they hopped.

When Humbert had come to fetch him to Dr. Hopper’s office, they’d passed Belle standing just outside the ward with Nurse Lucas and the nurse from the front desk. She’d given him a sad smile. The blonde nurse, suddenly taller than Nurse Lucas, had reached out to squeeze her upper arm to comfort her. Nurse Lucas’ shoulders shook, and Belle had hugged her. He felt badly for the girl. He was thankful, though, that it hadn’t been Belle’s night shift.

It occurred to him that Nurse Lucas was in her stocking feet. He remembered the orderly who came in with a pair of full buckets and a dry mop carried under his arm not long after Taellelys was removed. The orderly had taken the water to the back of the room, then mopped all the way down the aisle and out the ward doors, before returning a few moments later to finish cleaning around the Lieutenant’s bunk. They’d found Lieutenant Booth’s whittling knife in the blood next to the bed.

Rummond shivered, letting go of his belt in favor of wrapping his arms around himself. “May I go?” he asked, looking to the doctor again.

“There’s nothing else you wish to talk about? You’re feeling all right, then?” Dr. Hopper glanced at the clock. Their time _was_ nearly up. 

Rummond huffed out a breath. “I’m not dead. That’s enough for the time being.”

The doctor gave him a strange look that wasn’t quite a smile, but some odd, understanding pressing together of his lips into a line.

Dr. Hopper took his hands off the desk, lacing them together in his lap. Captain Gold didn’t seem to be processing the morning well - or else he was doing so on an almost completely internal basis. Perhaps that explained the way his eyes were drawn to the window. Something peaceful and uncomplicated letting the gears turn, as it were.

Everyone dealt with death in a different way, and the men who were his patients here had seen more than any person ever should. Bloody death was something many of them had seen on the battlefield time and time again - but having it happen in front of one after returning to ‘civilized’ society was an entirely different beast. Dr. Hopper had braced himself for a difficult time in light of those facts, knowing that responses might be strange. He’d already gotten an Army major who sobbed into a handkerchief the entire twenty minutes, and a young man who was unable to stop himself from laughing hysterically while recounting his friend’s suicide by sidearm in the trenches. The colonel whose bed was right next to Taellelys’ had spent the full time staring right through him.

“If you need to talk, Captain, I can find the time when I’m finished going through the ward.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Rummond said. He didn’t especially want to talk about it, but he’d learned over the last few months that this particular gnawing feeling paired with that sentiment meant he probably should.

Humbert was waiting to accompany him when he stepped out of the office, and adjusted his stride to match Rummond’s pace, slowed by injury and cane. The orderly was quieter than usual, and Rummond wondered if the red in his eyes had been there on the way in, and he simply hadn’t noticed.

He hoped that Lieutenant Taellelys’ parents were gone by now. He had seen them - a very short, very portly little woman with a cloud of white curls, and a man with steel grey hair and perpetual smudges of soot on one cheek or the other - come in every Sunday morning for as long as he’d been there. They lived somewhere nearby. They’d come in this morning with smiling faces, only to be met at the ward door by Dr. Whale and his explanation as to why their son wasn’t in his bunk. It was the lack of surprise in their grief that haunted Rummond almost as much as the boy’s actions.

Nurse Mills stood in the east wing corridor, between the ward doors and her office, speaking with Nurse Nolan over the younger woman’s armful of files. The head nurse faced their way; there was little chance of getting by without catching her attention.

“It’s _such_ a shame, a sweet boy like that,” Nurse Nolan said with a shake of her head, her fingertips skipping through the tops of the files. She found what she searched for and pulled it from the middle, handing it to the head nurse.

“A shame, indeed,” Nurse Mills muttered offhand. She glanced up once, then again, and Rummond bristled when she took notice. “If only those who more deserve the punishment that comes with such an action would put a blade to good use.”

“Nurse Mills!” Nurse Nolan gasped, her face blanching. “I- I don’t think-”

“No, you don’t,” the head nurse said, sharp and cold, and Nurse Nolan closed her mouth.

Rummond stopped, narrowing his eyes at Nurse Mills, suddenly full to the brim of her hateful nature. Humbert placed a firm hand on his shoulder to bring him away without so much as breaking stride. He saw the smirk on her face before being swept along, but caught the poisonous glare that the orderly shot back at her, as well.

Humbert growled once they were out of earshot. “Don’t listen to that woman.”

“Nurse French and I have had a discussion or two about that,” Rummond grumbled. Even knowing that it was the worst of ideas, he would have liked to give her a searing earful. If he could have managed it.

“Good. Keep it in mind,” the orderly said, opening the ward door ahead of him. “She looks for ways to cause harm.”

“Aye, believe it or not, I’ve gathered as much.”

“It’s a good idea to avoid provoking her. She’ll take it as an excuse to stick you in confinement.”

Rummond frowned, giving the head nurse a look over his shoulder before the door closed. She’d gone back to laying down orders for Nurse Nolan, who still appeared upset. He followed a step behind Humbert, going back to his bunk.

“Commander Strand. Dr. Hopper would like to have a quick word,” the orderly said as he parted ways. The young man across the aisle reached over for the pair of crutches that leaned between his bed and table.

Belle looked over when she heard Graham back on the ward, and she brought up a smile for Rummond when she caught his eye. She’d come in just as dawn was breaking, having been called by Ruby in a panic (via a groggy Mrs. Potts, who didn’t appreciate having her few hours of sleep interrupted by the telephone ringing outside of her kitchen-adjacent quarters). She hadn’t had time to do more than give Rummond a shaky smile here and there on her way past his bed.

As luck would have it, Monday was to be Nurse Mills’ first day back after her impromptu trip out to the country, and she was called in early, as well. A break from work typically lent a better mood to one, she thought. Nurse Mills, on the other hand, for some reason seemed particularly vicious upon her return. She’d actually managed to make Ruby run off the ward earlier in the day with spiteful words.

“What were you _thinking?”_ she’d heard the head nurse berating over Ruby’s attempted apologies for some perceived wrong. “Some days, I doubt there’s a thing at all in your head, girl. Though, I suppose that would be part of your allure to the good doctor. Don’t you think Whale would have married you by now, if he saw you as anything more than a pair of legs to spread?” 

Belle had come back from the supply closet just in time to hear the head nurse hiss the remarks into Ruby’s face, and her friend had pushed right past her to get out. On any other day, Ruby might have replied in a manner that ended her job, but everyone’s emotions were running to the sorrowful side. Belle’s friend, whose sarcasm and flippant manner hid a tender heart, hadn’t quite been able to stop crying since her early morning discovery.

 _At last_ finding a few moments to spare, Belle made her way toward Rummond. 

“Hey, nurse,” Lieutenant Booth called as she passed his bed. “Am I going to get my knife back?”

She stopped and turned on him with a look of disbelief. “I would say not, Lieutenant.”

“Well, can I send for another one?”

“Perhaps you should wait to see whether knives of any length will be allowed on the ward any longer,” Belle suggested coolly. “I believe Dr. Whale is currently considering a new rule, in light of events.”

Booth scowled, taking a half-whittled something-or-other from his bedside table. “What am I supposed to do with my unfinished figures?”

“I have a few ideas about that,” Rummond interrupted, and Booth turned narrowed eyes on him.

Belle shook her head. “You may be forced to find a new pastime, Lieutenant,” she told him, continuing on.

She sat next to Rummond, giving him a bit of space, and sighed deeply. “Are you all right?”

He shrugged a bit. “I’m here.”

She studied his profile while he looked at his hands, trying to discern his mood. It wasn’t a good one. “I’m glad you’re here,” she told him, and she dared to lift her hand, resting it behind his shoulder. His eyes closed, and his posture relaxed the smallest bit while she watched. It was a welcome change from the odd awkwardness she’d felt from him since Friday.

Nurse Mills stepped onto the ward, and Belle pulled her hand back.

“Nurse French, if you have time to waste today of all days, I’m sure we can put our heads together to _find_ something for you to do,” the head nurse called across to her.

“I’ll come back later,” she promised, and gave his knee a nudge that could very well have been accidental to any onlookers. He nodded in acknowledgement and she felt a little better about having to leave him so quickly.

Belle had a half dozen empty tea cups looped onto her fingers and she was taking them in a kitchenward direction, as commanded, when she saw a familiar face come through the door. “David,” she greeted curiously. He’d been to the hospital countless times, but she couldn’t recall him ever coming _onto_ the ward. “Good afternoon.”

“Hi, Belle.” He nodded. “Is Mary Margaret around?”

She glanced around the ward. “She isn’t just this moment, but she’s been in and out. She’ll pop up soon,” Belle assured him. “Is it something important? I’m sure we can find her, if it is.”

“Oh, nothing dire.” David shook his head, looking past her. His eyes scanned the room, as if he looked _for_ something. “I heard what happened. Just here to check on her. You know, she, uh… She mentioned a while back, you have a Captain Gold here? _That_ Captain Gold?” he asked, looking as if he were fighting a smile.

“We do, and he is,” she confirmed. Looking over, she saw Rummond sitting a bit farther back on his bed. He fiddled with his book, letting the pages flutter back and forth. She turned to stand next to David, cups clinking as she gestured out in front of him. “Right there. Why don’t you go over? He could use a bit of company and distraction.”

“Yeah?” he asked, and he was off before she could answer him.

She watched as he went over, holding her breath as he approached Rummond.

“Hi,” David said, smiling and offering his hand. “Corporal David Nolan. Nurse French suggested I introduce myself.”

“Did she, now?” Rummond looked at the hand for a moment before his eyes shifted up to its owner, taking in the American accent. He looked over at Belle, and found her giving him an encouraging nod of her head and a smile. Reaching up, he took the Corporal’s hand to shake. “Captain Rummond Gold.”

“I know,” the boy said with a grin, practically squirming where he stood. “I’ve heard about you. A _lot_.”

“I’m sure you have.” Rummond frowned a bit. He could imagine what this Corporal had heard.

“Oh, not that,” David corrected before he was misunderstood. “I don’t mean the whole- not that. Your career. Your flying. That’s what I meant.”

“A good many people have,” Rummond said, uncertain.

“I won’t take too much of your time. I know today isn’t a great day for it.” The young Corporal stood there awkwardly. “I only wanted to shake your hand.”

Rummond simply looked up at him, not quite sure what to think, and the boy gave him another awkward smile before starting away.

“No, wait. I have something else to say,” David said, turning back. “You’re the reason I joined the RFC in the first place, Captain. When I was a kid, I kept up with the challenges people were setting for aviators to accomplish trips and stunts with airplanes. My dad, he won a hundred pounds through the Daily Mail for beating one of them. I grew up wanting wings.” He gestured out from his sides, and let his hands drop again, smiling. “I heard about you after the war started. I joined up because of you, and they took me right in because I had a couple hours of experience in the cockpit. Only got to fly for a year or so, there, but… I wanted to thank you. I wouldn’t have taken that leap, without seeing you in the newsreels. I just, uh- I needed to say that.”

Belle hurried to the kitchen and back, and she found David still talking to Rummond when she returned. She watched, hoping that the head nurse wouldn’t creep up again and make her go. David’s back was mostly to her, but a look of surprise crossed Rummond’s face, and then a hesitant smile. She couldn’t hear them clearly, but he said something and David turned, beaming, then trotted across to the front of the ward, grabbed a chair, and went back to park himself in it next to Rummond’s bed.

She threaded her fingers together and dropped them happily. Perhaps Rummond would make a friend. She was the only person he really spoke to on the ward, now that Jefferson was gone. He might deny it, but she believed that he missed the odd little Lieutenant Hargreaves.

Belle felt something cold on her hand, and she looked to find that some tea had made its way between her fingers, thanks to her carrying method. She picked up her apron, drying between them, making sure that none was caught between her skin and ring.

Her father would be so disappointed, if she broke the engagement. Less and less, though, could she stomach the idea of being Mrs. Donat Gaston. She turned the ring on her finger, her mouth quirked at it, and looked back up at Rummond.

David was telling him some tale, she could figure out that much. Rummond sat quietly, but she knew the look on his face as one that meant he was listening. 

She couldn’t break the engagement without a reason. Could she? Neither her father nor Donat would accept it. 

Rummond smiled at something David said, and a smile made its way to her own face in spite of her thoughts. She watched as he set his book down, beginning to illustrate with his hands as he spoke. His movements were a bit hesitant, but she hadn’t seen him so animated in _months_.

Her heart gave an odd flutter, startling her. Lifting a hand to her chest, she wondered what had caused it. The day had been a horrible one for the entire ward. She was worrying over the engagement, on top of that, and she realized then that she hadn’t eaten anything before rushing out of the house this morning, either. Likely a combination of her stressful day.

Rummond gave her a smile over David’s shoulder. She returned it, fishing blindly through her apron pocket for a piece of taffy candy to settle her system.


	41. Things That Cannot Long Be Hidden

Belle was just over an hour away from being able to clock out when Lieutenant Booth set off. He’d been fine, if touchy, all day. It turned out that he most certainly would _not_ be allowed a knife, and he was in a mood over the decision.

From the moment she’d switched the lights on, Booth had spent all of five minutes in his own space. He had wandered from one end of the room to the other, arguing over egg quality and nearly coming to blows with Jezek and an orderly, respectively, and irritating Nurse Boyd into asking for off-ward errands. He’d twice been sniped at by Nurse Mills, and in a fit of sulk around lunchtime, he had tossed the whittled figures that populated his bedside table into the rubbish. It was late afternoon before he finally returned to his bed with a book on the history of shipbuilding, taken from Commander Strand’s table while he was out for an appointment with Dr. Hopper. Belle gave him a frown for it, but at least he alit in his bed again.

After what turned out to be a very long Sunday-through-Monday shift, she was looking forward to the end of it. Her plans were close enough to grasp. She would sit with Rummond for a little while, then head home for dinner - one blessedly free of Donat on this night in particular - after which she would tuck herself into bed for a nice, long night’s sleep.

She could have cried when Booth launched himself from his bed again. “Lieutenant…” she began, leaving off an exchange with Ruby about the need to place suture needles on order to go over. 

He looked to her, across to Rummond, and back, then stepped away from his bed and into the aisle. “You can’t do that,” he said. “You can’t take men out there.”

“Lieutenant Booth?” Belle asked, making a cautious approach.

Booth threw his hands up in exasperation. “ _Let_ them barrel into Russia!” he spat at the space between himself and the windows. “They’ll get machine guns up their arses and come crying back!”

She watched his movements, keeping herself ready to move out of his way even as she stepped closer, determined that she wouldn’t get into another situation as she had with Tillman and the broken bowl. The Lieutenant hadn’t experienced hallucinations since admitting himself - not that she’d seen. She wondered whether his shell shock might for some reason be escalating. It was worth letting Dr. Hopper know. But first, they needed to calm him and, for goodness sake, get him back to his bed.

Ruby got to him first. She reached out, placing a hand on his arm. He slapped it away before she could speak, and proceeded to back toward Belle. 

Nurse Halloran hovered nervously on the other side of the ward, and Belle waved her over. She took the short way around, squeezing between a bedside table and support post. “Go and fetch Mr. Humbert. He should be down in the laundry, still. Be quick about it,” she instructed the young nurse with only a glance away from her patient.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Booth downright bellowed, making her flinch, and she saw Ruby’s eyes go wide on the other side of him. He paced a couple of steps toward his bed, but went once more into the aisle.

When he looked away from her, she chanced a glance over the ward. Rummond’s eyes flicked to her, but his attention went right back to the Lieutenant, a funny look on his face. He sat as far on the other side of his bed as he could without sliding off.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” the Lieutenant repeated, seething the words through his teeth this time. He turned to Belle, his tone shifting again to whisper, “Can you see the blood? There’s _so much blood_.”

Graham came hurrying through the doors, and Nurse Halloran followed soon after. He took a stance between Belle and Ruby, arms down, calm, but she could see the tension in him that watched for a possible threat to either of the nurses as Booth kept on.

Rummond moved, putting his bunk between himself and the noise. The longer it went on, the more scattered he felt. 

Save moments when Belle came by, and the half hour of distraction that Lieutenant Nolan had lent him, he’d felt unwell inside since Sunday morning. A contradiction of hollowed out and too heavy and feeling as though he might fly apart. He’d resisted the need to seek quiet and aloneness out of fear that he would miss one of the precious few minutes that Belle might be able to spare.

He felt himself shake as he leaned to reach across for the cane. The Lieutenant’s screaming was close to sending him over the edge. He rubbed one hand on his gown over his hip as Booth continued to dwell on blood and battle, his hands feeling sticky, and the sensation made his heart pound harder.

“Why don’t we go and sit down, Lieutenant, and we can talk?” Ruby tried to coax. “I know what you see is upsetting, but-”

Belle wished she’d kept a closer eye on the time when Gardner backed through the doors, pulling in the trolley that carried dinner. He wheeled it past him and took the other handle, pushing it along, and only frowned up at the fraught group when he recognized they occupied his usual parking place. Nurse Mills came in with Quinn at her back only minutes later, and oh, that was the very last thing that Belle needed.

“What’s going on here?” the head nurse snapped, as though it weren’t quite obvious from Booth’s agitation and the way they attempted to subtly pen him in.

It took a fraction of a second for Booth to rush at and shove Graham, who grabbed hold of the Lieutenant’s arms in an effort to keep from toppling, sending both men right into the trolley’s broad side. They overturned the entire cart, sending it crashing to the floor in a cacophony of smashing dishes and clanging trays.

Rummond startled violently, and it was absurd, but he felt as if he might panic, himself, in the midst of the upheaval. He couldn’t get out. He might have been able to sneak past the others, but the head nurse stood directly in the way. She may as well have barred the doors.

With Booth down, his concentration broken, the chaos was apparently over. He sat on the floor with Graham crouched in front of him and Ruby kneeling beside. They spoke quietly to him, and Booth nodded, looking around, now seeming content as a lark. 

“Mr. Gardner,” Nurse Mills said to the orderly, while glaring down at the overturned cart. “Go and ask Miss Rampion to put together another round of dinner for the ward.”

He nodded and was out the door like a shot. Belle was sure it was at least partially to avoid being involved with cleanup, but she couldn’t help a bit of irritation. She had no doubt he would have stood and argued with her over such a request.

She frowned, covering her face with her hands for a moment before turning to find Rummond. The longer her shift stretched, the more her attitude suffered, and she needed to clock out before she reached the end of her rope. 

Rummond appeared to be grasping at the frayed ends of his own. Confident that Booth was being seen to, she went to check on her admittedly more favored patient. 

He trembled, and she could see how quickly his breaths left him. “Rummond?” she asked softly. He seemed fixed on the point where they’d stood around Lieutenant Booth. It was unusual that he didn’t look at her as she approached him. She reached out to touch him, feeling badly when the contact gave him a start. “Are you all right?”

He met her eyes and shook his head, surprising her. It was a slight gesture, but accustomed as she was to his claims of being just fine no matter how he hurt, the acknowledgement that he wasn’t felt as though he were trusting her with something enormous.

If he was doing so badly that he would tell her, she worried that he might have an episode, himself. He hadn’t been troubled by his own hallucinations for weeks, as far as she knew, and she didn’t want that record broken because of this. She checked around her, getting a location on Nurse Mills. The head nurse had moved on to berating someone farther down on the ward, her back turned. 

Belle looked to Rummond again. “Do you want to get off the ward for a while? To the supply closet?” she asked in a whisper, and he nodded again. Telegraphing her intentions as she moved, she touched his arm, curling her hand over it to give it a squeeze. “Go on, when you see a chance. If you don’t feel up to coming back before I have to clock out, I’ll see you in the morning.”

The corner of Rummond’s mouth pulled a bit in a way that she translated as an attempt to smile, and she gave him one in return. He nodded once more before stepping away from her. She watched as he crossed to the window and moved around the edge of the room, escaping notice of the small group still on the floor, and slipped out. No one batted an eyelash. There was some bit of magic about him, she was sure, that he could walk right past without drawing attention.

He would be all right, she told herself. Ariel had the night shift. She would see that he got a dinner tray, when they came around again.

They got Booth back to his bed, got a strong cup of quinine water in him, and he seemed to be fine. She wondered what might have brought this on him. The stress of the previous day, perhaps, or his own anger at having his pastime disallowed. She knew well that emotions could easily provoke an episode. They never had before, for Booth, though. He was typically composed, if a bit snide. 

Graham brought a dustpan and brush in an old box from the storage room, and she left off her train of thought to help. Someone would do the mopping up later, but the immediate need was clearing spilled food and broken dinnerware. She knelt on the opposite side from Graham and Nurse Halloran, picking up the largest shards first and dropping them over into the box. They slid the trays back into the slots in the trolley, emptying what little was caught on them as they went.

“Where is Nurse Mills?” Ruby asked, leaving the Lieutenant, now that he’d quieted. 

Belle looked around, finding that the head nurse had apparently gone. “She was down the other end of the ward, last I saw.”

“I suppose it _is_ two minutes past her shift.” Ruby rolled her eyes, stepping over a broken cup so that she could get out the door that Nurse Halloran now partially blocked.

Belle was only glad that Nurse Mills wasn’t towering over them in an attempt to dictate the cleanup. 

Rummond crept quietly along the hallways to the north wing. At shift end, there were people about, and he had to be exceptionally careful. He kept stopping, worried that the footsteps he heard echoing were too close. The supply closet seemed miles from the ward. Finally, he opened the door only enough to slip inside, and closed it behind him, holding the handle and easing it back so that it didn’t click.

He curled himself as far into the corner as he could manage, miserable, working to keep himself whole in the silence. He’d been looking so forward to those few minutes of Belle’s company during dinner, and he couldn’t so much as hold together long enough to get there. She was too busy, anyway, he told himself. She had more important things to see to. He couldn’t ask her to stay, especially when this evening was the end of her long shift, and he could see the exhaustion in her face.

He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, the way she’d shown him. It took a while, and he wasn’t sure whether it was the air or the repetition, but he felt the anxiety that thrummed through him ratchet gradually down.

Rummond opened his eyes and unclenched his hands, wrapping his arms around his middle. The floor was cold, but he couldn’t summon enough energy to pull the blanket from its hiding place. 

The doorknob clicked. He jumped yet again, and felt like an idiot for it. It was always the same jolt of fear when the door opened; he pushed it away. There was the pat of shoes on tile, and he did manage to bring up a bit of a smile, this time. “Belle?” he said, and it came out far wearier and desperate in tone than he expected. 

“Not quite.” The hard, clipped voice came around the center shelves before Nurse Mills herself did, a cruel glint in her broad smile.

He shrank back, as if he could press himself right through the wall. _Oh, no, no…_

“‘Belle,’ is it?” she said, drawing the end of the name out long on her tongue. “How familiar, calling your nurse by her given name. And does _Belle_ call you by yours, I wonder? Does she whisper it in private?”

Rummond tried to hold her gaze, but the sharp, hateful glare of it above her sneer hurt in a palpable way. 

Her smile dropped, and she looked down on him. “Perhaps next time you slink from the ward to cower away, you should ensure that you aren’t followed. I have eyes everywhere, _Captain_.” She leaned, snatching the cane from where it rested against the shelf to his right, and flung it at him. “Up. Or I’ll call orderlies in to _pick_ you up.”

When he didn’t move quickly enough for her taste, she pushed at his wrapped leg with the toe of her shoe to encourage him, eliciting a satisfying gasp of pain. “I’ve an appointment soon, and not even God will be able to help you, if I’m late.”

Rummond levered to his feet with the help of the cane and the shelf behind him. As soon as he was steady, she wrapped a hand around his upper arm - the same place Belle earlier touched - her fingers biting into thin flesh. She steered him physically out in front of her before letting go, and he walked as near the shelving and as far around her as he could, on his way to the door.

“You’ve made a fine career of seducing young women, I imagine. Haven’t you? I’ve never known a pilot who wasn’t of such sorry ilk,” she snarled from behind him. “How unsurprising, you were found out for the cozener you are. If only they’d marched you out for it.”

He half expected her to give him a shove as he limped his way along the corridors back to the ward, her litany of vitriol pouring over him. The longer she went on, the smaller he felt. With her shoes clicking at his heels, he had the odd fancy of being a creature stalked by a hyena. The smirk he found on her face when he looked back over his shoulder as she hit a lull wasn’t terribly far off.

“Nurse Nolan tells me that her husband is quite impressed with you.” The head nurse laughed. The sound bounced off the walls and tile as they reached the east wing, making him cringe. “Isn’t that simply _darling_ , someone like you being adored right out of newsreels. Don’t let it go to your head. It doesn’t take much, that boy.”

Belle had gone, when he stepped back onto the ward. He hadn’t truly expected her to be there still, but it had been an irresistible hope.

“ _Back to your bed_ ,” Nurse Mills grit between her teeth when he hesitated just inside the doors. “And if I catch you out again tonight, you’ll spend the next week in confinement. I’m positive _that_ will be plenty of solitude for you.”


	42. The Sun, the Moon, and the Truth

She’d picked so at her dinner that first her father inquired after her health, and then Mrs. Potts applied a hand to her forehead to double check. It might only have been Belle’s manners that kept her from screaming like a toddler in need of a nap. 

After her father gave her a knowing smile and remarked upon her fiancé’s absence with an ill-timed, “Don’t worry yourself, my girl, Donat will be gone only the one day. We’ll have him back to the dinner table tomorrow night,” she excused herself from the meal, then certainly unable to force down another bite. 

It had been such a long time since climbing into her bed felt so wonderful. Her nightgown was heavenly, toasty from sitting beneath the covers with her bedwarmer, and her sheets were the same. The furnace was well and good, but it didn’t warm the bed, itself. She was half asleep even before she stopped wriggling to make her spot comfortable.

The next thing she knew, it was morning, and it felt like a small miracle to be able to prepare for work without having to drag herself around her bedroom half asleep. When she tried to do her usual sneak through the kitchen, Mrs. Potts pinned her down while the butler ever-so-innocently blocked the outer door, sat her at the counter, and filled her so full of breakfast that she could scarcely imagine ever being hungry again.

Her comfortable space between being early and barely on time had narrowed with the cook’s apprehension. After clocking in, she hurried through the hospital entryway and around the corner to the east wing corridor, where she found the small group of nurses who tended her ward waiting outside of Nurse Mills’ office. Only Nurse Nolan (likely in the office) and Ruby (yet to arrive) were absent. There was to be a morning briefing, apparently. Nurse Halloran, though appearing sleepy and a bit wrinkled about the apron, had a bright little smile, anyway. Belle returned it.

“How did Captain Gold fare?” she asked immediately upon stepping close enough that they could speak in semi-private.

“He had a hard night,” Ariel told her, but there was clearly more to it.

Belle’s smile faded. She followed as Ariel stepped aside. “What was it?” 

“He wouldn’t touch his dinner. I _tried_ to encourage him to eat, but he-” She shook her head. “And I’m not sure he slept at all.”

Belle’s heart sank a bit. She’d hoped that a little time alone would help him.

Ariel lowered her voice further, leaning close to whisper. “I think he cried part of the night?” she said, her face pulled in worry and her hands twisting together helplessly between the two of them.

Though she felt nothing like reassuring the younger nurse, Belle nodded. “It happens, with the men on this ward. Sometimes it’s nightmares, or the nighttime just brings things to the surface that won’t come out in daylight.”

“Oh, I know.” Ariel nodded quickly back to her before rattling on. “It’s only- Well, I wasn’t certain what to do. The way you sit with him and calm him down, it isn’t something he’ll allow just any of us to do, you know. I tried once. He got very snappish,” she explained with a small shrug. “He’s yours. All the nurses know it.”

Belle blinked at Nurse Halloran’s observation. “Don’t be silly. All of the nurses look after him.”

“Not in the way you do.”

“I’m not late,” Ruby claimed, hurrying up the corridor with her cap in one hand and hairpins in the other, “I’m not late!”

Looking from her lapel watch to her friend, Belle confirmed, “Only just.”

Ruby grinned, situating her cap on her head with Belle’s help in centering it, and she’d barely managed to get it pinned in place when Nurse Nolan opened the office door.

The door closed behind them, and Mary Margaret joined the ranks, taking a place between Ruby and Ariel. Nurse Mills stood from behind her desk, looking upon them as if she were about to give orders to the whole of the free world.

“I’m certain it has escaped the attention of my nurses and orderlies,” she began, her eyes alighting on Belle for a split second too long as they scanned her captive audience, and she smiled. “But it turns out that we’ve had a troubling problem for some time. From this day on, hospital supply closets will be locked unless you are actively obtaining supplies or performing inventory. Unauthorized individuals have been discovered to have access, and such a hazard cannot be allowed to continue. Only myself and Nurse Nolan will have keys. If you have need of supplies, simply locate one of us, and we will unlock the room for you.”

A murmur of displeasure went up from the small group, but Nurse Mills cleared her throat sharply, and they fell quiet again. Belle did her best to keep her expression neutral beneath the worry and anger that rolled suddenly over her.

“And what if you or Nurse Nolan aren’t around when we need supplies?” Ruby asked, obviously put out. “What about days when both of you are off work? What about nights?” 

“There will always be someone in the hospital with access. Nurse Lind will have custody of a key when necessary, and a night nurse will borrow one for the shift. I _have_ thought this through, Nurse Lucas,” the head nurse snipped.

Ariel half raised a hand. “What of emergencies? Won’t having to find someone with a key be a delay?”

Nurse Mills smiled. “I would suggest that you find someone _quickly_ , in that event.”

When they’d been dismissed, Ruby crossed the hallway to their supply closet, between the office door and the ward. She tried the handle and found it already locked. Giving the doorframe a kick that contained more symbolism than force, she grumbled, “Of all the absurd rules to make, this might be one of the most. ‘Unauthorized individuals,’ my foot. If anything had gone missing, it would be different, but it hasn’t!”

 _Self-important harridan_ , Belle thought as she followed Mal back to the front desk, needing a new place to hide her purse. A string of obscenities she’d only learned after joining the VAD and being exposed to foul-mouthed servicemen crossed her mind.

“Is it all right if I leave this here?” she asked, stepping around the front of the desk as Nurse Lind went around the back. She set the small, beaded tapestry purse on the counter. “Would you mind?

“Not a bit.” Nurse Lind nodded. She slid it to the edge, and tucked it away. “Bottom drawer, to the right of my chair. You can come and go for it when you need.”

“Thank you.” Belle gave her a quick smile before hurrying back in the direction of the ward.

As soon as she saw Rummond, she decided morning rounds could wait a bit. He lay with his back to the door, blanket pulled high, and he didn’t budge when she walked over.

“Good morning,” she said by way of letting him know that she was there. She saw his head tilt a bit on his pillow, and she knew he was awake and aware of her. Taking her usual seat on the edge of the bed, she waited for a moment to see if he would look at her or volunteer anything. 

“Nurse Halloran said you had a difficult night?” she asked when he didn’t respond. She wouldn’t harp on him missing dinner, since he’d eaten a bit of breakfast and most of his lunch the day before. There were other things that concerned her more just now.

His shoulder moved in the slightest of shrugs.

“Rummond?” she said, and gave his back a solid little pat to get his attention. “Come on, sit up for me?”

He didn’t react for a moment, but she saw him take a deep breath, and he began to shift. He pushed himself upright and turned to face forward. With his shoulders rounded and mussed hair fallen to hide most of his face as he looked down, he appeared wilted.

“Good morning,” he said at last, quietly.

Rummond could _feel_ how she looked at him. Expectantly, worriedly. It made him itch between his shoulderblades.

“What happened?” Belle asked, her voice gentle. “Something happened after you went to the supply closet last night?”

He was quiet for a long while before summoning up the will to speak again. “Nurse Mills found me. Said she had eyes everywhere.” He picked at a bit of fuzz on the knit of the topmost blanket. Pulling it carefully free, he stretched it between his fingertips. “She drove me back to the ward.”

“That’s all she did?” She suspected there was much more to it than that.

He shrugged again. He didn’t feel like recounting those very long ten minutes of the previous evening. Not just now.

She reached over for his hands. They went still as her hand rested over them, soft and warm, and he couldn’t help how his fingers tried to rise into her touch.

“I’ll be back in a little while,” she said, and he saw her lean to try and catch his eye. “There are a few things I need to tend. All right?”

Rummond nodded, chancing a look up at her after she’d started away. He didn’t particularly want her to go, but he thought perhaps he could manage to brush his teeth, shave, give his face a wash, and all that before she came back.

Belle found herself stalking down the hallway toward the head nurse’s office, building up a good seethe on the way. She knocked and waited for Nurse Mills to speak, though she felt nearer barging in than she ever had. As soon as she heard a muffled “Yes?” from within, she stepped inside.

She closed the door firmly behind her. “I find it a difficult stretch, that supplies are so in danger so as to necessitate locked doors and restricted keys.”

Nurse Mills raised an eyebrow at her audacity. “I believe you know well why I’ve had to change the rules,” she said with hard eyes and thinly disguised sneer. “We can’t have patients setting up house in areas as sensitive as the supply closets. Whose fault would it be, if one of these… _troubled_ patients injured himself - or worse - with the equipment and medication to be found in supply? I’m only surprised that it hasn’t come to my attention before.”

Were it anyone else at all, Belle might have believed the excuse. “We’ve not once had such a problem.”

“I am not stupid, Nurse French. I know precisely the reason you wish to keep the supply closets freely available. I _am_ aware that some nurses in this hospital find the lesser used areas convenient for romantic interludes. And I must warn you - I don’t believe you know what sort of libertine you’re entertaining this dalliance with.”

“Having a-” Belle squawked. “There is no _dalliance_ between Captain Gold-”

Nurse Mills interrupted her with a snide, “Don’t you mean _Rummond?”_

“-and myself. You have been remarkably misinformed.”

“Oh, have I?” Nurse Mills hummed, smirking.

Belle narrowed her eyes, recognizing the head nurse’s attempt to push her off course, and continued. “It’s come to my attention that you and the Captain had a run-in last evening.”

“An orderly happened to spot him sneaking around, and I simply followed up on the report. I must say, it _was_ the last straw, as far as this supply closet free-for-all goes.” The head nurse leaned back in her desk chair, and the nonchalant attitude grated.

“I’m afraid you don’t understand the situation, Nurse Mills,” Belle began, taking a breath, and opted for talking a bit of common sense. “Captain Gold sometimes needs to get away from the ward. Every once in a while, noise, or people, or his own nerves wear on him, and he needs a quiet space to regroup. Taking a few minutes in a supply closet gives him the opportunity for it.”

“Then perhaps he should talk to Dr. Hopper about that,” Nurse Mills said with a smug grin. “If he requires so much solitude, the confinement room would be ideal, I’m sure.”

“That isn’t appropriate, and you know it,” Belle clipped off, nearing her limit.

“We are not in the business of accommodating _hiding places_ for patients, Nurse French.”

“No. We are in the business of helping patients, of providing ways for them to heal, however we can.”

“And you believe hiding in a closet corner is an ideal healing method, do you?” The head nurse gave a derisive snort. “Cowering would be the reason Captain Gold is in the position he is in, is it not?”

“ _No_ , it is not. And if you cared enough for the patients on this ward to know what led to their admittal, you would know that, too!” 

Belle trod thin ice, and she was aware of it. She was still fairly sure that she couldn’t be fired outright, thanks to her father, but she knew she was pushing that safety. 

Nurse Mills sat forward again, placing her hands on the desk in front of her. “It is time for you to leave my office, before you end yourself up in Dr. Whale’s.”

Belle stood her ground for a moment longer, unwilling to allow the head nurse to think she’d been too easily cowed. Counting through ten heartbeats, she turned on her heel to leave, near slamming the door behind her.

She met Graham on his way in, and released a little steam by muttering a clearly upset, “That woman and her gorilla orderlies!” at him.

Graham’s hopes for an uneventful day disappeared all at once. He realized he’d arrived in the middle of something, but he wasn’t quite sure what. “What’s she done?”

“No, no, gorillas have too much nobility to liken them to those- those- _toads_.”

“Pardon me?”

“Oh, you know I’m not talking about you.” She crossed her arms, her frown deepening. “You aren’t hers.”

He gave her a look she couldn’t quite decipher, but there was a small smile in it, so she figured it couldn’t be a bad one. “Check on Captain Gold, please, when you go in? Thanks to Nurse Mills, he had a bad night. And I’m not sure _how_ bad, yet.”

“Of course.” He nodded. “What’s happened?”

“He was caught off the ward, Nurse Mills intends to lock all supply closets from now on, and only she and Nurse Nolan hold the keys. Ask Ruby, she’ll catch you up.” She sighed, turning back toward the foyer.

“Where are you going?”

Belle threw her hands out from her sides. “To find another quiet place.”

After an initial, quick look around the immediate area, she had to hurry back to the ward to begin her work day. Rummond was exactly where she left him, but she counted it a good sign that he was still sitting up, and hadn’t buried himself in the covers again. He held his breakfast tray on his lap, having done little more than push its contents around a bit. She spent minutes here and there with him, and went to continue her search when she had a fair space between tasks, hoping that she merely appeared busy.

The supply closets were out. Examination rooms were too constantly in use to be safe for him. There were a couple near the west ward that were unused because of water damage, and though it was likely no one would assume to look for him there, the extent of it meant they weren’t safe for anything at all.

She crossed paths with Graham again near the front desk. “Nothing?” he asked, stopping when she did.

Belle shook her head. “Nothing reliable.”

“Can I make a suggestion?”

“Anything would be welcome. I’m out of ideas.”

Graham turned his head, looking beyond Mal. 

Belle followed his direction, catching on quickly. “Would it be safe?”

He lowered his voice, going beyond what could feasibly be heard as idle chatter. “I’ve never once known Regina to set foot there. And if it needs to lock, now, Nurse Lind has the sole key.”

“Though… that means she’ll have to know about Captain Gold being there.”

“Mm. Nurse Lind, whom Regina took off the ward and banished to the front desk out of spite five years ago. I don’t believe it will be a terribly tough sell, asking her to keep that secret.” He grinned.

Belle smiled, darting over to the desk as Graham continued cheerfully on his way past, and she still smiled when she stepped back onto the ward a few minutes later.

Rummond’s lunch tray sat on his bedside table. It appeared untouched, and she tried not to let it worry her. Perhaps some good news would lift his spirits a bit. She took up her spot near him. “I’ve found a new bolt-hole for you.”

Graham had spent his lunch break creating a proper cubbyhole in the storage room’s far corner, as per Belle’s instructions. He’d moved boxes, brought up a clean blanket and pillow from the laundry, and arranged the clutter and miscellania on the shelves between the corner and the door so that someone situated there could see anyone who entered, while intruders couldn’t see the corner. Rummond would even have a place to conceal himself from said intruders - the opposite corner, where yet unused mattresses leaned - if needed. Belle had given it her approval.

She pulled small chunks from the thick slice of bread on the tray as she told Rummond what she and Graham had been up to, alternating between taking nibbles of her own and offering pieces to him. More often than not, he accepted them, listening to her with an expression that seemed a bit stunned.

“You’ll need to be particularly careful, if Nurse Mills intends on continuing to keep such a close eye,” she said, offering him a piece of the top crust. It was no longer warm, but it was still crunchy, and she smiled as he munched at it.

“You didn’t have to do this.” He shook his head, looking up at her. “I don’t want you to endanger your job. Not over me.”

“I’ll be just fine,” she promised, taking the cup of tea from his tray and holding it out. He didn’t reach for it right away, and she thought for a second that she had pushed too far. 

“Thank you,” he said quietly, meaning for far more than the teacup as he took it. It was no longer hot, but warm enough that it didn’t set his teeth on edge as he took a sip.

“It was my pleasure,” Belle said, and she meant it. Though helping Rummond had been foremost in her thoughts, to thwart even one of the head nurse’s hateful little schemes was satisfying. “I don’t understand why Nurse Mills has such a grudge against _you_. It doesn’t make sense.”

Rummond made a low, grumbling sound of agreement, following it with a long sip of tea.

“Will you tell me what happened, exactly?” she asked, hoping to get more out of him this go around.

He looked into his cup as if he’d like to crawl into it. “I won’t be a tattletale, as if it’s a schoolyard.”

“When someone causes you harm, it isn’t ‘tattling.’ Schoolyard, hospital, or elsewhere,” she told him sternly. She reached out, correcting a small place where the edge of his cuff was folded up, and rested her hand over his forearm. “Please, tell me?”

He shrugged a little. “Only words, for the most part. Ridicule over Corporal Nolan’s visit. Some accusation of seducing women. Insinuated-” He stopped himself. _That_ was something she didn’t need to hear. If she knew that the head nurse thought such things, what would she do? Pare down the time she spent around him? Go to her superior and disabuse her of the notion? He feared both prospects - one for his sake, the other for hers.

“Insinuated what?” she prompted when he trailed off.

Rummond shook his head, setting his cup back on the tray. “She was a bit physical. Threatened confinement.” He didn’t tell her that the threat was for a week of it. “That’s all, really.”

Belle’s expression darkened as he went on. “What do you mean, physical?”

Despite her reassurances, he felt more and more like a child being asked to report on an adult. He hadn’t experienced the feeling since his Aunties tried to ask him questions about his father, but he recognized it.

“I shouldn’t have said-” he murmured, shaking his head again. 

“Yes, you should. What did she do?” Belle pressed.

He couldn’t tell her about the bump to his leg. He wouldn’t. She fussed over it enough, as it was. “Grabbed my arm. It’s _nothing_.”

She caught the glance he made to his left arm, and she took his hand, beginning to unbutton his cuff.

“What are you doing?”

“I want to see.” His sleeve was loose enough these days to push high. Rummond looked away, but he didn’t fight her. She found a vague ring of a bruise around his upper arm, along with a row of four darker marks. Her fingers hovered over it, but she didn’t touch, afraid it might be too tender.

What _right_ had the head nurse to treat a patient so? Belle pressed her lips together in a hard line. She’d have liked to go and yank the woman’s hair right out of its pins, little good that it would do anyone.

She looked around, finding Nurse Halloran hovering around Strand’s space, and beckoned her over. “I need you to look and remember,” she told the other nurse.

“Oh, my goodness…” Ariel frowned, leaning closer. She started to touch the marks, and Belle stopped her hand. “What happened?”

“That isn’t important just now. I only need you to witness there _is_ a bruise, and the shape of it.”

Nurse Halloran nodded, taking a moment to look closely. 

“Thank you, you can go,” Belle said, sending a slightly bewildered Ariel back to her own chores.

“Why did you-?” Rummond asked, and she looked up to find his face flushed with embarrassment.

“Proof. Just in case.” She frowned as she tugged his sleeve back down and buttoned it again. Finished, she laced her fingers together in her lap, nails biting into the backs of her hands. The head nurse seemed to be unshamable, at least as far as her cruelties went, and Dr. Whale was unwilling to believe anything negative about Nurse Mills. “I shouldn’t have left before you were back on the ward.”

“It wasn’t your fault, any of it.” He fiddled with the cuff she fixed, a little disappointed that she took her hands back. The reviling was deserved, if not the confusing content of it. “I’m sure she has her reasons.”

“She’s an unkind person whose hatefulness stems from who-knows-where, and she takes it out on the people who deserve it least. You _can_ be angry with her.” Belle looked up at him, brow drawn.

“I’m not… _angry_ ,” he claimed. He _was_ angry. But overshadowing it were rattlement and frustration.

“Then I’ll be angry enough with her for both.”

“The things she said, they aren’t true,” he said, willing Belle, at least, to believe him. 

“Very few things that come out of that woman’s mouth do I believe,” she assured Rummond. 

Taking two 24-hour shifts so closely together probably wasn’t her finest idea, but she felt as though leaving would be a still worse one. She was plenty awake, though, and not nearly as weary or on edge as the previous evening. 

Tonight was Ruby’s shift. Belle found her sitting on the front desk, chatting with Mal over a late lunch. She went in with temptation. “I wondered if perhaps you had something else you would rather be doing tonight…?”

Mal gave Belle a knowing look, and Ruby perked up. “You want my night shift?”

Belle nodded. “I want to be on the ward tonight.”

“Take it!” Ruby nodded quickly back at her. “Be my guest. Maybe I can drag Victor out somewhere.”

“Would you mind putting in a call to my father?” Belle asked Nurse Lind with her most convincing smile. “And tell him not to worry?”

“Oh, I would _love_ to get your Mrs. Potts on the telephone and receive yet another earful about how often you miss dinner.” Mal’s remark dripped with sarcasm, but she ended it with a tolerant smile, dusting crumbs from her fingers before pushing away from the edge of the desk. Her chair’s casters rattled as it sped toward the telephone on the wall behind her.

The rest of the day passed slowly, and aside from some well-placed sneers, Nurse Mills didn’t take much bother with the east ward. She seemed to have gotten her jabs in, and didn’t lurk after her required midday round, thankfully.

After Lieutenant Taellelys, night checks had been switched to the half hour for a while. Belle performed her walks of the ward the same - going slowly, looking in on each man, starting on the far left side of the room so that she would finish back near her chair. 

Each and every serviceman on the ward, she suspected, had cried himself to sleep at some point or another. It was upsetting, but as she’d told Nurse Halloran, it did happen.

At the end of her check, she paused at the foot of Rummond’s bed, finding him shaking silently. She tried to tell herself to leave him alone. She knew how such crying had a way of exhausting a person.

Belle tried for all of five minutes, and just couldn’t do it. She had memories of Mrs. Potts’ grandson when he was a baby and she a young girl, and she remembered Christopher crying inconsolably in his cot. Mrs. Potts had wanted him to learn to put himself to sleep, rather than being rocked. Belle had tiptoed through to the cook’s quarters to lean over him, talking to him until he calmed and fell asleep. It had hurt her to hear Chip crying then, and it hurt her to know that Rummond cried now.

She went back to place her lantern on the table, and sat on the edge of his bed, her hip touching his back. He startled and went absolutely still. “It’s all right,” she whispered to him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice thick, and he pulled a hand from beneath the blankets to scrub at the tears on his face with the heel of it. “Last thing you need, I’m sure.”

She saw how hard he wiped at his cheek, and she reached up, wrapping her fingers around his wrist to gently pull his hand away. “You let me worry about what I need,” she said. 

She didn’t let go, and he didn’t pull away, resting his arm on top of the covers to allow her to hold on. Belle could feel him shake with the effort to keep himself still and quiet. “Is it something in particular? What happened yesterday? Or… everything?”

A breath Rummond was attempting to slowly release escaped on a sob, and he winced. “Everything.”

Belle moved her free hand to touch his hair. He felt her fingers, so warm, graze over his ear, and he shivered at the way everything else felt suddenly cold. “Is there any way I can help?” she asked.

He shook his head almost imperceptibly. “How does anyone do this?” he breathed. “How does anyone _live_ through this?”

“I don’t know,” Belle told him honestly. “But they do. So many do.”

If she’d kept to her schedule, she would be home now. She would be in the parlor, her father to her right and Donat to his right, listening as they talked, plastering on a smile when one or the other looked to her. Rarely had she been so glad to take an unscheduled night shift. She didn’t want to be at home. Not right now. She knew where she wanted to be.

In the dim glow of her lantern flame, she watched his face. The frustration, confusion, grief. She reached up, her arm resting against his shoulder so that she could run her hand over the back of his hair.

Precisely where she wanted to be.


	43. Asunder

Belle clocked out and dropped her time card back in its slot. Nurse Lind had already gone for the day, but she found her purse exactly where Mal placed it the previous morning - safely in the righthand drawer, behind a stack of unused file folders. She stepped around the desk and hesitated, glancing from the entryway to the east corridor, and reached beneath her coat to have a look at her watch. It was only a little past the end of her shift. She had more than enough time to get home for dinner.

She turned and headed back to the ward. _Just a few minutes_ , she told herself.

Much of the night, between checks, she’d spent at Rummond’s bedside. He’d quieted, and though he hadn’t gone to sleep, she thought he rested. Her day had been a busy one. She’d been given the task of inventorying their supply closet, on top of her regular duties. Nurse Mills lorded over the door key every bit as much as Belle expected. 

She’d spent her lunch break with Rummond, worrying once again over his lack of appetite and doing her best to draw a smile from him. She could see him _trying_ , giving her pained, polite smiles that got nowhere near his eyes, and eventually she gave in to simply providing quiet company until she had to go back work. Dinner had gone little better, ending with apologies and the half dozen bites that she’d coaxed into him in his bedpan.

He was in the middle of shuffling his playing cards when she went back in, keeping his hands busy. The cup of tea she’d brought to calm his stomach sat on the table next to him. She was glad to see it half gone.

“I thought I might check in once more before heading home,” she said, giving Rummond a smile as she approached.

He looked up at her, simply meeting her eyes for a moment, before making another attempt to return her expression. It fell flat, and she felt a twinge around her heart for him.

“All’s well,” he assured her, letting the cards fall neatly together between his cupped fingers. It wasn’t an ‘I’m fine,’ but it rang just as false.

“Ruby is on tonight, since I took her shift last night. If you need anything, just ask her.” He could ask any of the nurses, really, but she knew how likely _that_ was.

He nodded, and Belle reached to place her hand on his shoulder. “Good night. Sleep well,” she wished him.

“And you,” he said quietly. His head tilted toward her touch as if he wanted to rest his cheek against her hand, but didn’t quite dare. “Good night, Belle.”

She had to force herself away, to make her hand leave his shoulder and her feet move toward the door.

She tried to think of anything else as she left the hospital drive. More and more, she dreaded going home. A great deal of her reluctance lay with Rummond, not wanting to leave him when he wasn’t doing well. But the lion’s share was because of Donat. He would be there for dinner, and afterward he would likely attempt to corner her - perhaps in a hallway or on the stairs, or the study, where he’d worked to persuade her most recently - and try again. It was the very last thing she wanted to deal with tonight. She wasn’t dead on her feet as she’d been Monday evening, but she was still tired and very much not in the mood to fend off Donat’s advances.

The ride home was bracing, and she could tell already that the winter would chill her through. She thought she might give in and allow her father to send her to work in the car when the cold really began setting in this year, instead of holding out for snowy mornings.

Donat’s Douglas sat in the driveway when she rode past the front of the house. Of course it did. He’d likely have been there for an hour, now. He liked to arrive early, to make a presence in the house when she came back from work.

She stopped just up the path from the kitchen, swinging her leg off her bicycle, and walked it the rest of the way. Her first collision with the wall and subsequent topple onto the step had broken her of riding all the way up. She parked next to the door, leaning her bicycle against the stone, and _oh_ , she could smell dinner before she stepped inside. They hadn’t served just yet, and it was a wonderful thing to walk into. Her stomach rumbled, giving her a pettish reminder that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

The scent of bread hit her first, followed quickly by roast and vegetables. Among the rest, she picked out something sweet. Sure enough, Mrs. Potts placed a pie on the counter next to the window, a little porcelain funnel poking up from its center.

“Last of the cherries for the season,” the cook supplied before Belle could speak. “And some plums to fill it in.”

“Save out an extra piece for me, for breakfast?” Belle asked. Donat tended to take large seconds, and it was rare that a normal evening’s dessert survived to the next day.

“Surely, if it means you stopping long enough to eat it,” Mrs. Potts scolded teasingly, then pointed at her own cheek. Belle dropped a quick kiss there. “Your man has been waiting in the hallway for a good twenty minutes. He tried to stalk the kitchen. _I_ wasn’t having that.”

Belle wrinkled her nose while she was still turned and hidden from the rest of the kitchen staff. “I’d have given you two kisses, if you’d kept him from coming over tonight,” she whispered, then hurried away as Mrs. Potts flicked a hand towel at her.

Indeed, Donat met her just outside the kitchen. “Nearer on time than usual,” he observed with a grin. 

He took her coat in one of his sporadic displays of chivalry. After placing a ring on her finger, the courtesies and consideration he’d shown her early on had all but disappeared from their time alone.

She brought up a tight smile in response to his remark, and he tossed her jacket onto the hall table, nearly upsetting the vase that occupied it. When he wrapped his hands around her upper arms to bring her closer, she knew what was coming.

His kisses were clammy, messy things that bowed her backward so that a muscle below her right shoulderblade pinched. For the longest time, she’d wondered if that’s just what kisses were, and that novels had overstated the loveliness of them in the way they overstated so many other things. It had taken all of a five-minute chat with Ruby for her to realize that perhaps it was simply Donat.

With the leverage of her hands against his chest, she freed herself. “I’ll go and freshen up, and I’ll be right back down,” she said, sidestepping his grasp, and hurried for the stairs as if her greatest desire were to fix herself up to sit across the table from him. Neither her father nor Donat liked to see her uniform at dinner. It was as good an excuse as any. 

She washed her face and fixed a few pins, smoothing her hair so that she needn’t re-comb it. After changing into a dress fit for evening company, she took a few moments at her vanity to gather herself. She rubbed away a smudge of face cream near the corner with a fingertip, and ran her hand across the surface. The piece of furniture had once been her mother’s; she felt closer to her here than anywhere else in the house, one of her few memories of her mother being leaning on her knee as she got ready to go out. When she’d grown old enough to need a vanity, her father had wanted to buy a new one. She wouldn’t have it.

Belle had a pang of wishing her mother were there to talk to… about a great many things, lately.

She took a breath and left her room. Her father and Donat stood at the far end of the dining room when she entered, involved in some discussion that ceased as soon as they noticed her. 

“Don’t you look lovely!” her father crowed, beaming, and went to his chair at the head of the table. “Doesn’t she look lovely? And after such a long shift.”

Donat grinned, going around to pull her chair out. “Truly radiant,” he said as she took her seat, bending to speak near her ear.

Dinner was no more or less uncomfortable than usual. Much of the conversation revolved around the fact of her father leaving the next morning for two weeks in France. Donat promised to be over each evening, “so that our girl won’t be lonely,” and Belle thought she suppressed her dismay quite well. It occurred to her yet again that a woman should not look in trepidation toward time spent with her fiancé.

The day caught up with her when they retired to the parlor. Her chair, so near the fire, was far too warm and comfortable to keep her alert. After a few minutes, it seemed her father felt the same. She noticed that he’d gone right to sleep, his head propped upright against the high back of his armchair, while Donat still extolled the virtues of docking and banging a polo pony’s tail over the trend of braiding it up.

It wasn’t difficult to induce a yawn. Belle half-stifled it, and since her father wasn’t awake to cluck his tongue at her impoliteness, she quietly excused herself. She could make a detour by the kitchen, ask the butler or Mrs. Potts to wake her father and bustle him off to bed, and perhaps Donat would have the decency to catch on that it was time for him to go.

She knew he followed her by the time she stepped off the parlor rug, the creak of the chair and the sound of his heavy footsteps behind her providing warning. She opted to head for her bedroom rather than the kitchen. Stairs included, it was closer. She could duck inside and pretend to have not heard him walking after her, couldn’t she?

He overtook her on the top landing, catching her arm and turning her to face him. The smile he gave her as he slowly backed her toward the wall was thoroughly unpleasant.

“Belle,” he said, his voice pitched deep. She expected that it was meant in his head to be seductive, but the way her name sounded on his lips made her stomach turn a bit. 

He lifted a hand to run his finger around the embroidery at the neckline of her dress, pushing it aside. “Might you be wearing one of my gifts underneath this gaudy little thing?”

“I am not,” she told him shortly, bringing her sleeve back onto her shoulder.

“You know, soundly as your father sleeps, we might have our fun before he so much as gets up from his chair.” He moved his hands to her hips, and with a sharp tug, he brought her against him.

“Donat…” Belle squirmed. She felt him rising against her stomach, where he pressed them together. “I’ve had a long day and a large dinner. I don’t think tonight is a good time.”

He leered down at her. “I think a bit of a romp is just what you need, _Nurse French_.” 

That form of her name rang even worse, coming from him, and she wasn’t sure that she successfully fought off an annoyed look. She tried again to get him to leave off - pleading illness would work, surely. “I don’t feel well enough for it, Donat.”

He let go of her and took a step back, and for an instant, she thought he’d understood. But he reached for her hand, towing her along in the direction of her bedroom.

She didn’t want to let him into her room again. She _wouldn’t_. Belle found herself at the absolute end of her rope. She dug her heels in, pulling back. “You aren’t _listening_.”

“I’m listening. I hear quite clearly what you’re saying.” He grinned at her, as though he was certain what she meant was different from what she said. And she realized that, yes, something was definitely being lost in the translation between her refusal and his persistence.

Her very forced, politest of smiles faded into an outright frown. Donat dropped her hand and his grin at the same time. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

They stared at one another, her hurt frown to his scowl, for so long it made her skin itch. She wouldn’t allow herself to look away. The silence was so complete that she could hear dishes clattering down in the kitchen.

She tried to find in him the man who had courted her. Where was the Donat who had invited her on Saturday picnics with his mother’s church? Who once put down his coat so that her shoes weren’t ruined in the mud after a surprise shower? Who had happened across a Japanese medical text in a Swiss bookstore and brought it home to her? The Donat that everyone else adored.

She wondered if the face he’d first shown her had ever _really_ existed. That Donat seemed to have disappeared almost as soon as she accepted his proposal, and her affection for him had since been trickling slowly and surely away. This sickening dread and repellence that had begun to replace it - this wasn’t love. It wasn’t even close.

And like that, she was done. Belle steeled herself.

Bravery. She had to have bravery. She could do this.

She twisted the heavy engagement ring off her finger and held it out to him.

Donat laughed. That, she hadn’t expected. “What is this?” he asked, looking from her face to her hand in genuine confusion.

She had to say it before she lost her nerve. While she still had anger in her belly. “The wedding is off.”

His laughter halted, but a cocksure smirk remained. “You can’t be serious.”

“I assure you that I am.”

His smile, insincere as it was, fell away. It was replaced by contempt. “You don’t get to decide that on your own.”

“ _Oh_ , yes I do,” she said, more sure of her decision with every word that passed his lips. “I believe it’s time for you to see yourself home.”

“And I believe I’ll have a talk with your father before I go anywhere,” he threatened. 

Belle narrowed her eyes up at him. As threats went, it was a hollow one. “Please do,” she snipped.

He stepped close. “Ungrateful. _Spoiled_ ,” he snarled down at her, and she turned her face away. He snatched the engagement ring from her hand and stomped his way down the staircase.

She reached blindly for the wall, finding it with her hand, and stumbled over to lean against it. Her breath and heart, holding steady while she stood her ground, now raced to catch up. Raising a hand to press to her chest, she found it shaking. She’d done it.

A bellow of, _“Maurice!”_ came from downstairs.

She hurried the few yards left between her and her room, and she locked herself in. One or the other - or, Heaven forbid, both - would be coming back to her door before long, and she didn’t want it left open to them.

Belle stood at the door. She could vaguely hear Donat’s yelled side of an argument, though she couldn’t hear her father. So badly did she want to know what they were saying, but her bravery had been spent for the night, and she couldn’t make herself go back out to the landing to listen.

It took perhaps fifteen minutes, all told, but the downstairs finally went quiet. Another moment later, and she heard the front door slam _hard_. Then came her father’s slow footfalls on the stairs. 

He stopped at her door, and she waited. “Belle?” he finally called, following it with a light knock. “Are you all right?”

“I’m here, Papa. I’m fine,” she said, leaning against the wall next to the doorframe.

“What’s happened? Will you tell me?”

He was obviously worried, and she couldn’t blame him. There was no telling what nonsense Donat had filled his ear with, either. 

She looked down at her left hand. It gave her a strange sense of relief, seeing her ring finger bare. “The wedding is off. I’ve broken the engagement and given back his ring.”

“Donat says you became hysterical for no reason.” There was a moment during which she assumed that her father was waiting for a response, before he continued. “I told him that my Belle always has a reason. You do, don’t you?”

“We don’t see eye to eye. We never have. It simply found a tipping point.” She grit her teeth together. _Hysterical, my foot,_ she thought, and wondered what other tripe he’d had to say.

“A lover’s spat, my girl,” her father cooed from the other side of the door, all cajoling tones and sweet persuasion. “It won’t last forever. You’ll have a talk, straighten things all out.”

“It isn’t a spat. It’s gone far beyond a spat.” She shook her head as if he could see her. It was better to let him think that she’d called everything off over a simple argument.

“But… Dear, you love Donat. And he loves you. Give it time. You’ll both cool off and repair things, just wait and see.”

“No, Papa,” she said firmly. “I don’t love Donat, and I don’t believe he loves me. I won’t marry him and live in some agreed upon… _artifice_ of civility, at best. Toleration is the most we could give to one another, and that isn’t enough. Please understand?”

“I do understand,” he said, sounding weary, and he hesitated. “I understand that you’re upset.”

She pushed slowly away from the wall, feeling so much more tired than she had in the parlor only minutes ago. Reaching for the small key that stayed in her door, she unlocked and opened it. Her father peered through the space she allowed. He looked her quickly up and down, and she saw his shoulders relax when he found her hale and whole.

Belle swung the door wide, wrapping her arms around his great barrel of a form. She tucked her head beneath his chin, and he hugged her in return. “You’re all right, though?”

“I’m just fine, Papa,” she said, her assurances muffled. After a few moments of indulging in her father holding her in the wake of an evening that turned out far worse than she predicted, she asked, “Would you tell the staff that he’s no longer welcome? I don’t want to see him.”

“As you wish.” He sounded so bewildered that she felt guilty for it. “I’ll tell the staff, and when you decide you’re ready to talk it all out with him, we’ll invite him back. How does that sound?”

Belle sighed, but she didn't argue. She knew her own mind, and Donat was no longer welcome anywhere near it.


	44. To Live Afresh

Rummond gave up on another night of sleep when the sky outside the window across the ward lightened from stark black to the deep, pre-dawn blue he’d come to know far too well. He’d have given a great deal for something to occupy his hands and mind in the dark. Hours spent staring up at the ceiling or out across the far side of the ward had grown old long months ago, and did nothing but give his thoughts a chance to dwell on things that tended to sink their claws into the entire day.

The sun had just properly risen, and he’d begun thinking of dragging himself off to the washroom, when Dr. Whale stepped through the door. Dr. Hopper stood at his back, waiting while the administrator went across to the first bunk in the same row Rummond’s sat. He woke Lieutenant Booth with a shaken shoulder and a bark of his name.

Booth sat up, grumbling a bleary, “Bit early for wakeup call, isn’t it?”

“We need to have a word,” Dr. Whale said, his expression severe.

Fresh from his bunk, the Lieutenant shrugged into his robe, and he followed the doctors out. Humbert walked onto the ward not too many minutes later. A good number of the day staff were in early this morning, apparently.

The orderly’s face held a firm frown, and that more than the rest had Rummond wondering precisely what was going on. Until Humbert snapped open a canvas kitbag on top of the bed, at which point it became obvious. He began stowing away Lieutenant Booth’s personal effects, first emptying the footlocker, then the bedside table. When he’d finished his task without a single glance away that might invite conversation, Nurse Lucas came in to strip the bed, an equally displeased turn to her mouth.

Rummond eyed the bare bunk in confusion. There had been a fair few discharges since he’d been here, and none had gone quite so abruptly.

He reached for the little bag that held his toiletries, pushing his covers back. Belle would be in soon, and he could ask her.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

There would, of course, be another briefing _this_ morning, when she was running behind. For the first time, she was late. By only two minutes, according to her watch, but still.

Belle was hurrying around the corner and into the east corridor when she saw the other nurses filing into Nurse Mills’ office, and she ran to catch up the end. Ruby, one of the last in, saw her, and the amused look on her face said that Belle would never be able to rib her friend about being late again.

She’d tossed and turned the night before, twisting herself up in her sheets, before finally getting to sleep. Even at that, she’d awakened in the middle of the night and couldn’t drop off again for thoughts of Donat plaguing her. His _things_ were still there. 

They weren’t his, technically, since he’d gifted them to her… but they _were_.

Belle had thought about them until she could no longer stand it, at which point she got out of bed, turned on the light, and gathered every blasted thing he had ever given her into a pile in the middle of her bedroom. For a moment she only looked at it, not sure what to do. Then her mind happened across a solution. She climbed up to take a hatbox down from the top shelf of her wardrobe. Everything went in. The nightgowns he gave her along with his leers as she opened the boxes he’d presented them in. A pair of shoes. A set of skimpy underthings he’d once brought back from France. She emptied the contents of the purse he’d given her, and dropped it in. She would replace the purse from a local shop, accustomed as she’d become to carrying one, but the rest could go with absolutely no reservation.

The hatbox had been ejected into the hallway before she put herself back to bed. She’d given it to the butler this morning, for giving to charity. That would have gotten under Donat’s skin, to know that someone he saw as ‘unworthy’ wore his presents.

It felt as if she’d only just dropped off to sleep again, when Mrs. Potts, herself, rapped on the door to tell her she’d be late if she didn’t hurry.

To her great surprise, Dr. Hopper waited in the head nurse’s office, while Nurse Mills stood smugly aside. Belle winced at the doctor’s notice of Lieutenant Booth’s departure and the circumstances thereof. As if opinions surrounding her patients weren’t already colored by enough hateful ignorance and misinformation.

Ruby caught her aside when they were dismissed, wrapping her up in a hug. “He wasn’t good for you, anyway,” she said.

Belle leaned slowly back, once she was given the room to do so, looking up at Ruby with wide eyes. “You know?”

“Oh…” Ruby said sympathetically. “Everyone knows.”

“It hasn’t even been-” Belle pulled away, checking her watch. “Twelve hours, for Heaven’s sake.”

Ruby gave her an apologetic look. “Mrs. Nolan called Granny last night around eight. Mrs. Halvard was visiting Mrs. Gaston when Donat came home. Mrs. Halvard told Mrs. Nolan. That’s how I found out.”

“...I’d been single for less than an hour.” Belle shook her head, finding herself missing the days when telephones weren’t so ubiquitous. She might have had the weekend until everyone and their dog knew that she’d broken her engagement.

“Apparently Donat pitched some great fit when he got home, and Mrs. Halvard was ushered politely but _quickly_ out of the house.”

Belle frowned. That sounded just about right. “Have they started in on gossip about my reasons yet?”

Ruby shook her head, walking over with Belle to retrieve her charts. “None that I’ve heard. Granny mentioned something about not being surprised, and that it wasn’t the first time a girl’s broken her engagement with him. According to her, it’s been kept fairly quiet by the Gastons, but he was engaged to a girl in France before the war. She doesn’t know the details, but he hasn’t been back to Lille since.”

“I don’t-” Belle sighed. She picked Rummond’s chart from the table to make it first in the stack she assembled for her morning rounds. “I don’t want to know what they’re saying. Don’t repeat it to me, when they start?” she said, knowing that they would, eventually.

“Sure. Of course,” Ruby agreed. “I’m sorry it came to calling off the wedding.”

“Thank you.” Belle leaned, hugging her friend again. She’d known that she could count on Ruby to take her part, and Graham, as well. She had _someone_ on her side of this mess, at least.

It was a day for surprises, she found as she headed onto the ward. Rummond sat on his bed, appearing washed and combed, clean gown and all. He didn’t look quite so miserable as she’d left him the night before, either. Despite the weight of her day already, she couldn’t help but smile when she saw him.

“Good morning,” Rummond greeted her.

Belle’s smile grew. It had been quite a few days since he’d spoken first. “Why, good morning,” she returned. “Don’t you look tidy?”

A corner of his mouth quirked upward, and she was glad to see it. “I did my best. Best I could, with my leg still bound up…”

“How are you feeling? Aside from being ‘bound up’?” she asked. Complaints about the wrappings still being in place were a good sign; he only really grumbled over it when he felt moderately well.

“Better,” he acknowledged quietly. He looked down, seeming to assess something. “I believe I could attempt breakfast.”

It was clearly a bit of placation for her benefit, but she would accept it, if it meant Rummond trying to eat. He moved his toiletry pouch from off the bed, clearing the space next to him, and she took the invitation. “How was your night? Better than the previous one, I hope.”

He shrugged, shifting his concentration far too solidly on closing the leather buckle around his bag, and put it away beneath the table again. “I would feel better still, if you would get rid of this,” he said, lifting his right foot from the floor. He wiggled his toes at the open end of the stiffened gauze. 

Belle hummed, giving his leg and then him a thoughtful look. “One more week?” she asked of him.

He looked sidelong at her. “It feels fine. Much better,” he said, and when she simply raised her eyebrows, he relented. “One more.”

She knew it was a lot, knowing how he hated the thing on his leg. He’d already endured it longer than she’d thought he would. She half expected to come in one morning to find that he’d cut the wrappings away, himself.

Rummond glanced to the recently vacated bunk. He itched to ask. Lieutenant Booth had never been terribly friendly - he could count the number of sentences they’d exchanged on the fingers of one hand. Even so, it would be lonelier, now having no one on either side of him. 

“Booth was escorted out early this morning,” he said, looking to Belle. “Dr. Whale nor Dr. Hopper appeared too happy, when they came to fetch him.”

She set her files down on the other side of her. No one had told any of the men on the ward about Lieutenant Booth, then. If one knew, the entire hospital would know by now. Much as men enjoyed making women out all to be gossiping hens, Belle knew that there was _no one_ who spread gossip like military boys. It was a discussion she’d likely have with patients a few times today, and that prospect didn’t appeal at all.

“No, I imagine they didn’t,” she said with a frown at the corners of her mouth. “He won’t be here any longer.”

“They haven’t shipped him off to an asylum or some such, have they?” he asked carefully. After watching Tillman being taken away, the situation had wormed its way into his greater fears. The thought of being only an episode away from forced, permanent committal sank a cold stone in his stomach.

“Oh, no, he was released.” Belle shook her head. “Hopefully soon behind some variety of bars or other, but for now, released.”

 _“Bars?”_ Rummond blinked.

She lowered her voice. “He didn’t need to be here. Mr. Booth’s injury was discovered to have been put on,” she said, and perhaps a bit of resentment toward the man’s deception eked into her tone.

“How do you mean? He seemed-” Booth had only just a few days before been in a bad way. Everyone had witnessed it. “He _seemed_ ill.”

“He swindled a goodly amount of money from a couple in Bridlington, and it seems he thought our hospital would be the ideal place to avoid being caught. Correspondence was found detailing methods by which to imitate the effects of shell shock, dated before he signed himself in. He was never so much as in the service.” She summarized the information that Dr. Hopper had given the nurses only a few minutes ago.

Rummond stared, agape for a moment. “He was imitating very well, I take it, if he’d been here for months.”

Belle’s lips pressed into a thin line. “He was, yes.”

“How did the hospital come to suspect?”

“I’m not privy to everything that happened,” she said, and glanced toward the doors. “Apparently he said something suspicious during a session with Dr. Hopper, from what I gather. Something enough that steps were taken to investigate.”

Rummon’s brow drew tight. As if they weren’t accused of malingering often enough, the wretch could give something to point to. “Does that happen often? Frauds admitting themselves?”

“No,” Belle said firmly. “Not here, at least. There are stories, but I haven’t heard of many at all who did so in truth. The stigma generally keeps them away.”

“Who would freely assume the mantle of ‘coward’ and all that comes with it?” he practically muttered into his collar.

He could feel Belle looking at him. Her hand came ’round to rest in the middle of his back - a spreading spot of warmth through his gown.

She leaned close, to speak softly to him. “You are _not_ a coward, Rummond. Booth was nearer a coward than you or any man here.”

He shook his head, brushing away her assurance, going back to a line of conversation he could better handle this morning. “Something was a bit off in his ranting. I didn’t want to be peculiar about it, didn’t want to cause anything. It’s frightening and muddled, seeing old things come at you…” He trailed off, clearing his throat.

“What was it?” she asked, her hand remaining right where it was.

“The Russians didn’t have machine guns.” He shrugged. “As I said, thoughts get muddled. When I see things, it isn’t always the perfect truth my mind is repeating back to me. The mistake wasn’t alarming. But knowing now…”

“It’s like dreaming something that happened before? Hallways didn’t really stretch until you couldn’t reach the end, your teeth didn’t really fall out into your hand in the waking world?” Hallucinations weren’t something that she wanted to experience, by any means, but she’d have liked to understand better for her patients’ sakes.

“A bit like that,” he agreed. It wasn’t, precisely, but the feeling of seeing things that weren’t there and that had so much effect on one wasn’t easily explained.

Her hand slid away from his back. He looked at the hand that still rested in Belle’s lap, as the other joined it. She fidgeted a little, her fingers poised oddly, and the difference struck him. “You’ve lost your ring.” 

“Hm?” She followed his gaze to her hand. Her thumb was turned in to touch the inside of her finger, where her ring had been for months now. She frowned, the little bubble that existed outside of Donat and his influence on her life bursting. His presence was gone, but it was too fresh to pretend away yet. “Oh. No, we… I’ve called the wedding off.”

“Ah,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

It was only a half lie. He was sorry that it made her sad, whatever had happened; he wasn’t sorry that she wouldn’t be marrying the buffoon.

“Don’t be. I’m not,” she said with a little too much forced cheerfulness, then gave in to an honest sigh. “Maybe I am, a bit. But only that it didn’t turn out the way I thought it would.”

“How so?” he encouraged. He was glad to listen to her, often as she listened to him. A broken engagement was no small thing, and he could see the turmoil in her.

“He didn’t understand me. From the beginning - didn’t understand my books, why I love being in medicine. And I thought it didn’t matter. I thought he would see, eventually. As it turned out, the longer I knew him, the less he could see of me.” Belle looked up to see him paying rapt attention to her, and she couldn’t speak for a moment. She laughed a little, covering the sting of the conversation, and shook her head. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. You don’t need to hear about my problems.”

“I don’t mind,” he said quickly, lacing his fingers together to squash the urge to reach for her nearer hand. “I don’t mind listening. I’m happy to. You’ve certainly listened to me enough.”

She smiled over at him, leaning to bump her shoulder gently against his. “I’ve never minded listening to you.”

The swish of the ward door attracted her attention, and she looked up in time to see Nurse Mills stepping inside. Belle stood, gathering her charts. “I’ll be back when breakfast comes around,” she said, and went to start her rounds before the head nurse could begin snapping orders.

As the day wore on, she felt worse and worse. Donat intruded on her thoughts. She worried he might be plotting something, worried he might show up at the hospital. And when he didn’t show up, she worried he might have gone back to the house today, and that her father might be giving him some encouraging talk about patience and women’s sensibilities. The latter brought some anger with it, being something she could fully imagine.

 _Gone, sent on his merry way, and I still can’t escape him_ , she thought bitterly as she prepared a cup of quinine water for Commander Strand, who was having a bad day for far different reasons.

It was more than Donat, though. No matter where she went, the other nurses kept giving her sympathetic looks, and she kept happening across furtive conversations that quieted when she got too near. She suddenly understood quite a lot better Rummond’s strong reaction when he’d believed she pitied him.

What she didn’t understand was why she was so upset. The more she thought, the more clearly she saw that she’d never _loved_ Donat. Not in the way she had imagined that she would love someone she’d be married to for the rest of her life. The relationship had hurt her far more than it had ever made her happy. Still, she found herself grieving its loss.

Why couldn’t this have happened last night though? Last night, when she had plenty of time to cry herself sick, rather than hitting her at work?

She tossed the measuring spoon into the sink, and placed the bottle of quinine back on the cupboard shelf a bit harder than necessary.

Zelda looked over. “All right, Belle?”

“Fine and dandy,” she mumbled, scowling down at the cup of cloudy water.

“I heard,” Zelda said. She turned, leaning a hip against the counter as she wiped her hands on a kitchen towel. “I’m sorry.”

“Everyone’s heard.” Belle shook her head. “Apparently it’s _everyone’s_ business.”

“That’s the way a hospital is. You remember when Leroy and Nurse Novak were carrying on, how that got around.”

“I have to get this to the Commander.” Belle took the cup and left the kitchen before she said something in irritation, not at all in the mood for a discussion on the mechanics of the hospital gossip mill. She knew that Zelda didn’t mean anything by it, but she couldn’t stand listening any longer.

On her way back, she crossed paths with Nurse Halloran, who was more than happy to take Strand’s cup the rest of the way. Belle stood in the middle of the corridor, arms limp at her sides. Just now, she wanted nothing less than to go back onto a ward full of people. Her regular tasks were seen to through the afternoon. There was nothing she was _required_ to do for a while yet… 

After a moment of thought, she headed back toward the hospital foyer.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

Quinn was in fine form today, needling and provoking as he went down the aisle handing medication out to the patients who’d been prescribed to. The orderly’s behavior, as well as the reactions to it, set Rummond’s nerves on end.

Loudly enough for the whole of the ward to hear, Jezek informed Quinn that he’d wager a medicine tray could indeed fit up a man’s arsehole, with enough force behind it. He couldn’t hear what Quinn said to Knight, but the Corporal had given an uncharacteristic string of obscene and quite personal words in response. Rummond decided not to wait for the orderly to get around to his area of the ward.

He hadn’t yet had need of the space that Belle had sought out for him in the storage room, but there was no better time to get to know it. While Quinn still prodded at Commander Prinsen at the far end of the aisle, he slipped out.

As per Belle’s warning, he was careful as possible in making sure that no one saw him on his way. No nurses, no orderlies, and certainly no Nurse Mills. When he stepped into the open space of the hospital entrance, he hesitated. The front desk nurse was at her station.

He’d known she would likely be there, and Belle had told him that Nurse Lind was an ally. He didn’t know the woman at all - hadn’t even known her name before Belle said it - and he still felt a bit as if he’d been caught when she looked up at him. 

The nurse gave him a glance from head to feet, and turned back to the papers in front of her. “Go on,” she said without looking up again. “It’s open.”

He edged around the side of the counter and let himself into the storage room. It had a different smell than the medicinal aura of the supply closet - wood and paper, and other people’s clothing. Not _bad_ , only… unfamiliar. So unfamiliar that, until he heard a definite sniffle from the back of the room, he didn’t realize that he wasn’t alone.

Rummond froze, feeling just a bit like the tale about the bears and the little girl that one of his Aunties used to tell. He stepped quietly farther into the room, and leaned on his cane to peer around the large bank of center shelves, only to be met with a familiar uniform.

“Belle?” he asked, surprised to see her there.

She blotted her face with her apron, sniffling again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have availed myself of your spot here,” she said, and moved to get up. 

“No-” He shook his head, going around the shelves. “Please, you needn’t go.”

“Are you sure?” she asked. Her voice was small and muffled with stuffiness, as if she’d been at crying a good while.

He smiled a little lopsidedly. “Well, if there’s one person I don’t mind sharing my corner with.”

Belle gave a watery laugh, and hiccupped as she tried to keep from dissolving into tears again. She made a soft scoffing sound. “God, I’m ridiculous, aren’t I.”

“You’re nothing of the sort.” He motioned to the space next to her, and she gestured to it with both hands in welcome. He sat down, careful to kneel first, to take pressure off his leg. Though he was fairly sure of what had brought her there, he asked gently, “What’s the matter?”

“I needed a place to simply _be_ without being looked at, for a while. I just can’t stand all the other nurses giving me those cluck-tongued looks.” She screwed her face up as she imitated what she imagined were their thoughts, if not some of those discussions she’d interrupted. “‘Oh, it’s so sad, isn’t it? Poor Belle, she’ll end up a spinster. What ever _was_ she thinking?’ As if he were God’s gift to women. They’ve had the benefit of looking without having dealt with the donkey, himself.” She pulled a piece of candy from her pocket, untwisting the paper, and the peppermint went flying from it in her careless annoyance. She threw her hands back into her lap and sighed. “I’d far rather be a happy spinster than a miserable ‘Mrs. Gaston.’”

Rummond only looked at her for a moment. He’d never heard quite such a diatribe from _Belle_ before. It was somewhat comforting to know that she was capable of it.

She took another piece of candy, opening it more carefully this time. “ _Oh_ ,” she groaned in disgust, “the way they’re looking at me. ‘Come and see the idiot who let Donat Gaston get away!’ If they want him, they can have him!”

“You’re no idiot,” he told her firmly. “And as for the rest, it sounds as if _you’re_ the one who’s gotten away, and he had to be pried off with a barnacle scraper.”

A sound escaped her, half laugh and half sob, and she found herself grateful that he’d needed to find quiet, as well. Not that it ended up being quiet for him.

“My father adores him. _Everyone_ adores him. They all think he’s this immaculate gentleman. The height of politeness and gentility. I thought he would be a fine husband.”

“And he turned out not to be exactly what he seemed?” Rummond asked, gathering.

“I _thought_ he was a good man. I really did.” Belle sniffled, chuckling darkly at what she felt was such blindness. “Before he showed himself to be a colossal horse’s ass, I did like him. It was never destined to be some epic, passionate romance, but I thought it could be comfortable. It wasn’t.” She shook her head, and he saw more tears drop onto her cheeks.

“Did he-” Rummond frowned, not wanting to be indelicate. _Did he hurt you?_ he’d begun to ask, but it was obvious the man had. In other ways, even if not bodily. “If I may ask, what did he do to make you call off the wedding?”

“It was everything. A mountain of things that had one too many piled at the peak.” She blotted at her eyes with her apron again, and he pulled a handkerchief from his robe pocket to offer. Belle wrapped her hand around his for a moment before taking it. “After I accepted his proposal, he never was so nice again. Not toward me, not when we were alone. He became unkind. Ungentle.” She thought about how he’d touched her, but there were some things she couldn’t speak aloud. “It was as if he had a face for everyone else, and then he had a terribly ugly face just for me. I still don’t understand it.”

Rummond wouldn’t say it, but he suspected the bastard thought he’d had her trapped. And trapped, he could treat her any way he wanted. He’d known men like that; they were some of the most despicable creatures there were.

“He didn’t deserve you,” Rummond told her instead.

“Ruby said something similar.” She gave him a wobbly smile, and dabbed at her nose with his handkerchief. “My father acts as if he’s indulging my decision as some temporary thing, and I know he’d be happy if I called to apologize and took his ring back. He thinks Donat is the son he never had.” She made another disgusted noise at the back of her throat.

Their shoulders were nearly touching, the way they sat, feet stretched out from the corner. Belle scooted a little closer. She leaned her weight into his shoulder.

Rummond looked at his hands where they rested in his lap. He ached to put his arm around her, but worried that it would be too familiar. She’d been there so many times when he’d fallen apart. He could be here for her to lean on. It was a privilege. 

“Do you know, Graham offered to- what was the way he put it? ‘Put him somewhere not even the wolves would find him.’ He was joking, of course,” she addended, just in case Rummond might think her friend would do such a thing.

“He’s a good boy, that Humbert.” Rummond smiled a little.

He wasn’t so sure that the orderly’s offer was in jest, protective as he now knew Humbert to be over those he deemed under his care. Glad as he was that Belle was rid of this fiancé of hers, he could also easily entertain the idea of taking a pruning shear to the lout and relieving him of his legs an inch at a time. 

“May I add my twopenn'orth?” he asked after a bit of silence stretched on.

“Please,” she said with a nod.

“I’m glad you’re shot of him. Granted, I didn’t know him. Only saw him once. I do remember you didn’t seem happy at all, when he’d been around, though. If you’re happier without him, then you should be without him. Whoever you may take up with, they should make you happy. That’s all.” He shrugged the shoulder that was unoccupied. “Only my own opinion. Probably not worth one penny, much less a pair.”

“It’s a _fine_ opinion,” she said, nodding forcefully. “And one I heartily agree with.”

She sighed, and she realized that she felt cleansed, as if holding inside everything she’d told him had been a great deal to do with making her feel so badly. “Thank you for suffering my gabbling on,” she said.

“There was no suffering to it, worry not.” He looked up at her, and he was a bit startled to meet her gaze as soon as he did. She looked back at him, eyes still glassy with tears, and it felt as if she were searching him for something.

Belle lifted her hand, cradling her palm over his cheek and jaw, and he ducked his head immediately. He drew away a little, but leaning against him, she followed.

Rummond’s eyes fell shut as she watched. He raised his own hand, and it came up to hover just above hers, as though he wanted to cup his over it but didn’t quite dare. His breath went unsteady. She wondered just how long it had _been_ , before he’d finally allowed her to touch him, since he’d been touched kindly. It hurt to imagine.

She took her hand away, and he had to bite back a whimper at the loss. Eyes closed, he felt her weight move from his side. His heart sank a little. She had duties, though. She couldn’t stay all day, he had sense enough to know it. He only hoped that she felt better for being able to use him as a sounding board.

His eyes snapped open when she put her arms around him, the bun at the back of her hair touching his neck as she leaned her head against his shoulder. He tensed in shock, but she didn’t let go.

It felt so nice, being held against her. So _warm_. And it felt as if he hadn’t been properly warmed through in ages. He finally relaxed, shifting enough that he could rest his chin over her shoulder, and brought his arms up to wrap them around her in return.


	45. Useful

The bunk to Rummond’s right, formerly occupied by Booth, was still bare when he’d risen to make his early visit to the privy. He was sure of it. When he returned, it had been made up. Sheets and blanket sharply tucked and turned down, pillow placed atop. He hadn’t thought it took him quite that long to get his morning ritual seen to, but apparently it had been long enough for a nurse or orderly to flit in and out.

Belle was doubly busy, picking up the slack for an absent Nurse Boyd. Outside of a quick greeting before her rounds, she’d had no time to talk, and he wouldn’t bother her to indulge his simple nosiness about the sudden bedclothes. He wouldn’t pester the other nurses, and asking anything of the orderly who brought in the breakfast trays - Gardner, on this particular morning - would have taken something far nearer a life and death situation. He decided upon a tactic of wait-and-see. 

It was near lunchtime when Humbert escorted the new patient in. The quiet, everyday noise of the ward slowly silenced as attention was drawn and directed, and Rummond did his very best not to join the impolite stares. He’d seen very few men of comparable height.

The man was _tall_ \- six and a half feet if an inch - and broad, indeed. He walked slowly, head down, much like most patients when they first came in. Humbert brought him over, and Rummond turned his attention back to the book open on his lap.

“You’ll be here on the east ward, Corporal Reyes,” the orderly explained, and Rummond witnessed a cringe cross the man’s face as Humbert addressed him. “The other occupied wards house burn patients and general injuries, but this one is strictly servicemen with shell shock. If you’ve questions, ask one of the nurses or myself. I’ll bring your things in a while.”

The Corporal sat on his bunk, and the frame creaked. He frowned, shifting a little, and sat utterly still after the frame gave another squeak. The ward eventually went back to tending its own business. 

It didn’t take too long for Humbert to return with a large, leather travel bag with brass latches. Belle came in just behind him, and made her way right over to Rummond.

Humbert set the bag near the Corporal. “Once you’ve squared everything away, I’ll take it back to storage. There’s no hurry,” he said, giving his new patient a reassuring smile, and turned again to leave. 

“You’ve been reading? Any interesting developments?” Belle asked, sitting on the edge of Rummond’s bunk. She leaned to peer at the page he was on. She enjoyed their little discussions over his book, but she asked as a subtle way to check how much of the narrative he managed to hold onto, as well. It seemed the more he retained, the better he did in other ways.

He shook his head, closing the book. “As much as you might call it reading. Half dozen pages in the last week, and most of those in the past two days.”

Corporal Reyes stood next to his bunk, moving bits of clothing and a few belongings from the bag and onto the blanket. Gradually, the clothes went into the footlocker and the smaller items into the bedside table drawer. His back to them, Rummond saw a mass of long, wild, brown curls tied at his nape with a black ribbon. 

He gave Belle a curious look and glanced across to the ward’s newest inhabitant. 

“Corporal Anton Reyes,” she said, leaning close and speaking so softly that he had to lean in to meet her. “He’s an American. He was given an honorable discharge, technically, but… The men he served with didn’t regard it that way. He stayed behind when they were shipped home. That’s all I know.”

Rummond nodded, sitting back, and wondered about the rest of the young man’s story.

The Corporal sat on the side of the bunk, looking down at something held in his palm. He brought it up to his ear with a resigned frown, then tucked it into his pocket.

The ward door opened and Nurse Lucas stepped in. Her eyes fell directly on Belle, as if she’d known where she would be, and she headed right over. “Nurse Mills has decided that the linens need to be counted. She suggested I ask you to help,” she said as she approached, hands moving to settle at her hips in annoyance. “And by ‘suggested,’ I mean ‘commanded.’”

Belle scowled, and she slapped her leg. “That woman _knows_ I loathe inventory, and she’s setting me at it every opportunity!”

“Your mistake might’ve been ever letting her know how you hate it.” Nurse Lucas grinned, and she looked over at Rummond. “Sorry to be stealing your favorite nurse away.”

 _Your favorite nurse_. Rummond’s neck and ears went warm, and he locked his eyes firmly on the cover of his book. It was more the way she’d said it, than the words themselves.

Belle patted his knee before she stood to go. “I’ll be back in a while.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw her stop by the Corporal’s bunk. She spoke cheerfully to him. Rummond heard her introduce herself and offer much the same welcome that Humbert had, along with something quieter, beyond his hearing. Corporal Reyes looked past Belle to him, and she looked over her shoulder, smiling.

Once Belle left the ward, Rummond opened the book again and tried to concentrate. If he could only finish the final two pages of the chapter he’d been slogging through for the last month… Belle’s smile kept coming back to him, though, and he couldn’t even summon up irritation with the way it scattered his thoughts. He found himself smiling down at the words as they swam on the page.

He found himself overshadowed, and had a bit of a jump as he looked up to find Corporal Reyes towering over him. Rummond blinked up at him. 

The boy only looked awkwardly at him at first, before seeming to force words from his mouth. “C- Captain Gold? I have a p- pocketwatch.”

Rummond raised his eyebrows. Well, he no longer had to wonder what Belle had been saying before they’d looked back at him. “Do you, now?” he asked when the Corporal paused long. 

“I hear you r- repair them?” the Corporal said, eyes shifting and uncomfortable and staying mostly on the floor, only lighting on him for a second at a time. 

“I do,” Rummond confirmed. “Yours is one in need?”

Corporal Reyes reached into his robe and pulled a small pocketwarch, dwarfed even further in the young man’s palm, from the breast pocket of his pajama top. 

“You might have a seat, Corporal, rather than hovering,” Rummond offered, gesturing to the space in front of him.

“Call me Anton, p- please? Or Reyes,” he said, sounding a touch surer, and the bedframe groaned a bit as he sat. His face colored.

Rummond ignored it. “How did you manage to be allowed your own pajamas?” he asked, trying to draw the young man out so that he might at least look at him.

“Special d- disp- pensation,” Anton murmured. “From Dr. Whale. I m- meant to come in two weeks ago. He wouldn’t allow my p- p- p-”

“Disallowed pajamas, of all things?” Rummond cut in to save Anton the flush he could see rising again over the word. He smiled patiently.

He’d begun to realize that a good number of the men on the ward stammered at one time or another. Including himself, the ones who did it seemed most likely to on bad days, or when they were pushed into talking about the war. He had never heard someone who had it quite as badly as his own, though. Perhaps it was nerves in general that triggered it? 

The Corporal frowned. “He d- didn’t want t- to admit they didn’t have hospital issue g- gowns to fit.”

“I must say, I was a mite shocked they had one to fit _me_ ,” Rummond said. “Half expected to be handed a flour sack.”

Anton looked up at him in surprise, actually smiling a bit. It made the attempt at friendliness worth it.

“About that watch, now.”

“I was w- wondering- well, it w- was damaged at Belleau Wood. I thought maybe you c- could help.”

“Damaged how?” Rummond replaced his bookmark and set the book aside. He reached over to take the watch, the chain sliding off the larger man’s hand. While Anton looked on, he unscrewed the back to peer inside.

“B- bullet caught the side of the case. I t- took it to a watchmaker when I g- g-” He looked up at Rummond as if expecting to be mocked, and appeared curious when he wasn’t. “When I g- got a place to stay. He said he c- couldn’t fix it.”

“He was likely trying to sell you a new one.” Rummond tilted the open movement, looking as best he could into the dented side. “It isn’t beyond repair. The bridge is bent, and it looks as if a wheel may be damaged. I’ll need to take it apart all the way down to be sure, but I believe I can repair it, if I can get replacement parts.”

Anton nodded quickly. “I c- can send away for whatever you n- need. Just g- give me a list when you g- get her opened up.”

“It’s a sentimental piece, I take it?”

“My father g- gave it to me. Twenty-first birthday.” The Corporal smiled, but it was wobbly, and it fell away. “A family t- tradition.”

“I’ll get it fixed up,” Rummond promised. He put the back on again.

Anton’s smile was a bit steadier when he said, “Thank you.”

The boy went back to his own bunk, and Rummond placed the watch in his bedside drawer. He’d nearly finished with the pocketwatch he’d been repairing during sessions with Dr. Hopper. He was only waiting on the jewels that needed replacing to come in. Having another to begin on was ideal.

He picked up his book again, slipping his fingers in next to the bookmark as he opened it. The young Corporal had come to him for help. It was a small thing, an easy thing, to repair the watch. Even in the condition it was in. With the right parts, he could make it nearly as good as new. 

Belle had thanked him for listening when she’d needed to talk through what happened with her now former fiancé. She’d _hugged_ him for it. It took him a while to place the feeling - particularly amid so many others he’d been flooded with during that hug.

He felt useful. Someone needed something of him. And it had been such a very long time since he felt anything more than a drain on others, anything near usefulness.


	46. One Returns

Rummond struck out on a visit to Dr. Hopper, and for the first time, it wasn’t to have his head peered into. Despite having gotten the equivalent of one scant night’s sleep over the course of the past week, he felt in at least decent enough spirits to run a simple errand on his own.

Humbert sat on the little wooden bench that was positioned against the wall directly across from the office door, his legs stretched far out in front of him and crossed at the ankle.

“The doctor’s busy?” Rummond assumed.

The orderly nodded. “Time is nearly up, though,” he said. “Wait, if you’d like.”

Rummond stood for a few minutes before deciding to take the unoccupied side of the bench. He sat with his cane between his knees, both hands resting on top of the shepherd’s crook handle. His eyes stayed on the molding that ran along the bottom of the wall, trying to find an imperfection in the way the tile tucked up beneath it.

The door clicked, and Commander Strand came a bit clumsily out into the hallway, brought up short when the tip of his right crutch hit the doorframe. Rummond had gathered - along with the nurses and the rest of the patients on their side of the ward - that Strand didn’t like to be offered help, and it seemed he’d been in such bad shape before being admitted that he hadn’t been able to put a great deal of practice into getting himself around.

They exchanged an awkward smile. He’d never crossed paths with another patient around Dr. Hopper’s office, and it occurred to him that the doctor had arranged it that way. There was something decidedly odd about running into a compatriot in a place where souls were stripped bare.

Dr. Hopper followed Strand out, and he appeared a bit surprised to find Rummond there. “You aren’t in my appointments for the day. Is something the matter, Captain?”

“No, no, nothing wrong,” Rummond said with a shake of his head.

“If there is, I can find time to-”

“I only came to ask if I might still borrow those tools?”

“Of course!” Dr. Hopper smiled, pleased that his patient might be finding more ways to occupy himself outside of sessions. “They’re right where they always are.”

Rummond stepped past and went in to fetch them. There was Corporal Reyes’ pocketwatch to repair, and he intended to work on it during his appointments. He’d acquired more since word got around he’d accepted the one, though, and he’d get them done and returned more quickly, if he could see to them outside of the office, too. He left the watch he was in the middle of working on, but he could easily take the little case of tools back and forth.

He turned to see the doctor talking with Humbert, as they nearly always did when the orderly came along. Through the half-open door, he saw Humbert brush something from Dr. Hopper’s lapel as they spoke. Humbert smiled, and the doctor ducked his head a bit before glancing down the direction Strand had gone.

Rummond made his way back to the door, pausing to offer a, “Thank you, doctor,” as he went by.

Dr. Hopper, cheeks pinked, nodded. “You’re quite welcome. They’re in good hands.”

He walked back to the ward a few steps behind Humbert and Strand, who waited near the corner at the end of the corridor. The orderly held the door for the Commander, then kept it for Rummond as he straggled in. He murmured a word of thanks as he passed, and Humbert gave him a nod before leaving.

There were visitors on the ward, if they could be called such - a pair of men who were blatant in their state of being constables, Brunswick-starred custodian helmets held in hand. They had Nurse Nolan taken off to one side, speaking quietly. Rummond had only just gotten the watchmaker’s tools tucked away in his drawer and sat himself on his bunk, when the nurse started over, the two policemen close behind.

“This was Mr. Booth’s bed?” the shorter of the two asked.

“It’s been reassigned, of course, but yes,” Nurse Nolan confirmed.

“It was searched before he left?”

She nodded. “Top to bottom.”

The taller policeman sniffed. “You’re certain nothing more incriminating was found?”

“Nothing more than the letters, as far as material proof.” The nurse frowned, looking between the constables. “We take this very seriously. As soon as it was discovered, he was removed from the ward.”

“And yet, you had this man in the hospital here for more than three months, during which time _no one_ suspected?”

“We aren’t in the habit of interrogating patients upon admittal.”

“Nor of verifying that patients were servicemen at all, apparently,” the taller man retorted.

“Lieuten-” Nurse Nolan shook her head. “ _Mr_. Booth was American. We sent for his records, and were told they were unavailable. It happens. We were not going to deny him care because of a mix-up.”

“Might do you all good to be a bit more discriminating.” He snorted a laugh through his nose.

The shorter man shot the taller a look. “Thank you, nurse. We’ll see ourselves out when we’ve finished.”

When Nurse Nolan had taken her leave, both constables headed for Rummond. He was far from surprised, being the nearest to Booth’s bunk, but the idea of having to talk with them was not an appealing one.

The taller man - the younger of the two, apparently intent on giving Nurse Nolan a difficult time - introduced himself as Tweed. The older, smaller constable introduced himself as Percy. He was a bit twitchy, a habit of turning his lips in such a way that it made his near fully white mustache tilt this way and that doing nothing to help the impression.

When Rummond gave them his rank and name, Percy seemed to regard him with a passing look of recognition. Tweed looked at him similarly, though his expression held more disdain.

“Mr. Booth was your neighbor here, correct?” Tweed asked, setting his helmet on the table and pushing the book there aside to do it.

Rummond reached for his book, as much to have something to do with his hands as to keep it from being shoved off. “Aye, he was…”

“For three months, wasn’t it?”

“About that long. A bit more.”

“And you didn’t suspect anything?” Tweed pressed. “Nothing at all?”

“Not really, no.” Rummond’s fingertips flexed against the fabric texture of the book’s cover.

“Of course.” Tweed snorted, taking a paper-bound notepad from one tunic pocket and a pencil from the other. “But you wouldn’t rat out a fellow confidence man, would-ya?”

“Tweed.” Percy gave the other man a scowl of disapproval, and he looked back to Rummond. “Did Mr. Booth ever give a clue as to where he might go, once he got out of hospital?”

Rummond’s eyes lingered on the taller of the two for a moment before looking to the constable addressing him. “He wasn’t the talkative sort. We never exchanged enough words to be called a conversation, much less discussing getaway plans.”

Tweed’s eyes narrowed. “Career military like yourself, and _you_ couldn’t tell whether Booth was lying to your face? I find that a stretch.”

“Well now, his nose didn’t exactly grow, did it?” Rummond snipped with a short-tempered gesture toward his face. “As I said, he didn’t do a great deal of talking.”

“Why don’t you wait over by the exit while I finish here? Won’t be long.” Percy motioned in the direction of the doors with his helmet.

The two men glared steadily at one another until Tweed gave. He put away his pencil and pad, snatching his helmet from the table. “Wet behind the ears whelp,” Percy muttered to himself as the younger constable walked away, before turning back. “If there might be anything else you can think of, you can ring the station.”

Rummond nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You know, I was a paper-pusher, myself, during the war. But my brother, he flew for the King, too. Was home naught a month before he… well. He left a wife and three little ones.” One corner of the constable’s mouth turned deeply downward. He cleared his throat. “Wanted to say, thank you for all you did. And I’m sorry for my partner’s behavior. If the family’d believed enough was wrong to admit my brother to a place like this, maybe…”

Rummond didn’t quite know how to react. He didn’t understand why strangers told him such things, why this man was thanking him.

The younger constable yelled from the front. “Percy!”

“Just- ah. Thank you. Captain.” He nodded sharply before making a quick turn to go.

Belle stepped onto the ward before the policemen could make their way out, and she wound up waylaid, as well. Rummond watched closely. From her expression, she wasn’t overly happy with what came out of Tweed’s mouth, either. Percy gave him a look of being utterly fed up, and finished the questioning. He exchanged a polite nod with Belle, and they left at last. She turned her back, rolling her eyes before the door was shut, and made her way over to Rummond.

“That was unpleasant,” she said, and she caught his frown. “They didn’t say anything unkind to you, did they?”

He hummed noncommittally. “The smaller one was perfectly nice.”

He didn’t seem terribly upset, but she’d keep an eye on him, anyway. Tweed _had_ been quite a toad, and she wondered whether he’d seen fit to make remarks to Rummond as he had in front of her.

“I hear you’ve been put to work?” she asked, deciding not to press about the constables.

Rummond chuckled, moving to open his bedside table drawer. Four more pocketwatches and a lapel watch belonging to one of the nurses sat inside. He shook his head, then leaned his cheek on his hand, eyes turned to look up at her. “It seems word has gotten out.”

“And you don’t mind?” She worried whether he might be taking on too much out of some notion of responsibility or not wishing to turn someone down.

“Oh, no, I don’t mind.” He grinned, closing the drawer again. “Gives me something useful to do when words get to crawling around. And no one is in too great a hurry to get them back.”

“Still having trouble reading?” Belle asked gently, though she knew. She’d seen his frustration.

He looked down at the book, left closed in his lap. “I can concentrate on that, but not this,” he said, gesturing vaguely between the drawer and his book. A good three and a half months, he’d been hacking away at that book, and he was barely halfway. “I don’t understand it.”

“There are theories that different parts of the brain concentrate on different things,” she said, sitting on the edge of the mattress. “It makes sense that a thing like reading fiction and working on something mechanical use different parts.”

“Suppose so.” Rummond sighed. He propped the book against his leg, letting it fall open. “It would certainly be nice to be able to read more than a handful of sentences at a go, though.”

“I could read a bit aloud for you sometime,” she offered before realizing the thought had formed in her mind, much less fallen off her tongue. “If you like.”

The expression on his face when he looked up at her - shock and something akin to longing - gave her an odd feeling low in her stomach. She had a sudden itch to wrap her arms around him.

He smiled, but it took him a moment to arrange words in a proper order. “Well, the point is to- to read the thing through myself, but… Sometime?”

Nurse Mills came through the ward doors, and Belle’s smile fell. It was as if the head nurse knew when she’d taken an instant to speak with him, and found it necessary to stick her nose in.

Just after Nurse Mills, there followed another woman, slight and blonde, familiar, and- oh. The woman brought a little blonde girl in with her, holding her by the hand. Belle’s heart sank.

Rummond followed the direction in which Belle frowned. “Mrs. Hargreaves,” he said quietly, and Belle nodded. His own smile followed suit with hers.

Lieutenant Hargreaves stepped in behind his wife, wearing a hospital gown beneath his robe, an uneasy smile plastered across his face. Nurse Mills looked on smugly, though she didn’t speak – a fact for which Belle was thankful, for the Lieutenant’s sake.

She and Rummond looked on as Jefferson said goodbye to his family. They could see his face over his daughter’s shoulder when he squatted down to hug her, his eyes screwed tightly closed and his lips pressed into a pale line. He held the girl’s face between his hands for a moment, looking at her, before he rose again to embrace his wife. She kissed his cheek and closed her hands around the lapels of his robe, shaking her head at something he said to her.

There had been no briefing this morning. They must have come along without calling ahead. Belle was glad that the Lieutenant’s bed hadn’t been occupied by someone else, but she’d so hoped that he was out for good.

Mrs. Hargreaves and Grace didn’t linger for too much longer. Rummond expected them to stay, to help Jefferson settle back in, but though with obvious reluctance, they left. Grace clung to her mother’s skirts, looking back and whining in distress as she was guided away. The Lieutenant went to his bunk with his eyes on his feet.

Nurse Mills wasn’t right on his heels, but not far from it. She sauntered over after seeing his wife out into the hallway. “I believe you know the drill, Lieutenant,” she sneered. “You’ll even have your old bed back. Might as well make it a permanent installment, oughtn’t we?”

Jefferson turned away from the head nurse. Where before he might have fired back, he didn’t so much as appear tempted.

Belle stood and went around the end of Rummond’s bunk, putting herself in the space with Lieutenant Hargreaves, so that he wasn’t alone. “Nurse Mills, I can take it from here,” she said firmly.

Bait untaken, the head nurse turned up her nose. “See that he remembers the rules,” she sniped, pushing past Belle despite there being more than enough room to go around. “There will be no indulgences taken simply because he couldn’t make it outside.”

Belle attempted to talk to the Lieutenant, giving him soft words and gentle questions, but he shrugged away from both. Before long, Humbert brought in the suitcase that Hargreaves had left with in one hand, a pillow and linens held in the other arm. He set them atop the footlocker and went about making up the bed.

“Leave me be,” Jefferson said, turning away again, this time from Belle. He closed his eyes. “Please.”

“All right. I’ll be along again later,” she told him. She smiled a bit weakly over at Rummond, and went back to her work.

He badly wanted to ask Hargreaves what had happened. Much as he felt for the boy over having to return, it was a morbid curiosity, as well. What could bring him back, when he’d been released on such good terms? Judging by Hargreaves’ demeanor, though, it was far from a time for inquiries.

Humbert finished the bed quickly, moving the Lieutenant’s suitcase onto the foot of it. He asked whether Hargreaves needed anything, and was turned down with a shake of his head.

When finally left to himself, Jefferson unpacked. Clothing, toiletry bag, books, and sundries – he tucked them all away in their respective places. He reached in after a pair of socks, and his hand closed around something foreign. Too soft, too big to be socks, he pulled it out and dropped himself onto the side of his bunk with it.

Grace’s rabbit had found its way into his suitcase, and he knew just how. He held it tightly between his hands, in a grip that would surely have strangled the poor thing had it been more than cloth and stuffing, and leaned forward to press his face into it as he fought to hold himself together.


	47. A Fragile Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Warning for a rather more painful hallucination involving blood and death in this chapter, so no one gets a nasty surprise.)

His day had begun badly, only growing worse as it went on. 

It started in the night, the dark and inability to sleep giving him over to hyperawareness. Every creak, every sigh of wind and scrape of a branch at a window drew his attention. Somewhere before morning, he began to smell forest around him - soil and trees and rotting duff. 

He turned over to find the Austrian boy staring down at him around the break of dawn, and he nearly leapt from the other side of his bunk in shock. A few moments of pressing his fingers against tightly-closed eyes, and the boy was gone. He’d pushed on, trying his best to go about his day with what initiative he could muster, in hopes that to do so might dispel what he felt coming.

Just prior to breakfast, he began to smell the metallic tang of blood on the air, bright and cloying. He took a peppermint - one of Belle’s, squirrelled away in his drawer - attempting to drown it out. It only got stronger. Before long, it had invaded his mouth and he could feel it between his fingers, making his heart pound and his hands shake. He ended up with the dry retches when trays were brought in.

Rummond gave up on the day being a productive one. He curled beneath his blanket, left with neither the energy nor the desire to occupy himself. 

Belle was busy much of the morning, but he caught some of the worried looks she sent his way. He’d told her nothing, and she’d been off the ward when breakfast came around. She’d seen his tray untouched, he supposed, but that wasn’t so irregular. He wondered if perhaps she’d seen the disquietment on his face.

An hour and a bit before lunch, Humbert came in. Rummond groaned, remembering his appointment with Dr. Hopper. For the first time in a while, he was reluctant to go, feeling weary enough without the exhaustion that came with therapy sessions.

Belle found Graham trying to catch her eye as soon as he returned to the ward from seeing Corporal Knight to and from his appointment. His expression was an uneasy one, and the feeling she had that it was going to be one of those days seemed more and more accurate.

“Tell me,” she said when she got near. She fell into step with his slow progress toward her section.

“Dr. Whale stopped by Archie’s office in the middle of the Corporal’s session. He remarked how he wants to try his electric cure on Lieutenant Hargreaves. I wanted you to be prepared…” he said, giving her a meaningful look.

She felt as if a stone sank in her stomach. They’d find it. “He said so in front of you?”

Graham shrugged. “Every odd while, there is _some_ benefit to being one of the hospital’s more invisible rank of employees.”

“He can’t do that!” Rummond said, quiet but urgent, and cast a look toward Jefferson to check whether he’d heard. The Lieutenant lay with his back to them, a book just visible over the side of his head.

_Ears like a fox, this one,_ Belle thought. She looked to see Rummond sitting up, thinking it a good sign. “No…” She shook her head, going over to perch on the edge of his bed, to assure him. Graham followed at a distance. “No, don’t worry, I-”

“‘Don’t worry’? You don’t understand,” he frowned, growing frantic. Hargreaves had a family, a place he belonged. He didn’t deserve that.

She rested her hand on the blanket over his shin, leaning to whisper. _“You_ don’t understand. The machine is… no longer in working order.”

His agitation ebbed a bit. “No?”

Belle shook her head again, pulling a smile for him up past her own fears. “That might have been me, as well.”

“What if they find out?” Rummond asked. He’d learned the difference between her smiles - the genuine ones and those not. They didn’t sit quite true when she had to force it.

“They can’t prove anything,” she told him. “They can suspect all they like, but they can’t prove I had anything to do with it.”

Belle’s reassurances, meant to soothe him, only made his concern jump from one thing to the other. Instead of fretting that the Lieutenant would be hauled off to Whale’s electric shock therapy room, he worried that Belle’s actions would be found out.

Didn’t one run out of _room_ for worries, eventually? It seemed as if a person should.

“It’s getting near time for your appointment, Captain,” Humbert reminded. “We should head over.”

Belle patted his leg and stood, taking his robe from where it draped across the foot of the bunk. He hesitated, for a moment clinging to how little he wanted to go, but finally he folded his covers back.

He held the bundle of watchmaker’s tools close to him as he and Humbert made their way toward Dr. Hopper. His head ached through his eyes and forehead, a mixture of pressure and pain that grew with every night he failed to find sleep. The way seemed a little dim, though the lights overhead were bright as ever. His eyes hadn’t betrayed him since the boy early this morning, even as everything else felt determined to drive him mad, but the reprieve ended.

The walls only moved, at first - a vague shudder, the hallway dimming further in a smooth fall, as though the sun had gone behind a cloud. He stared down the long corridor ahead. There were trees in the walls. Thick trunks, branches stretching out to obscure the ceiling in a canopy.

_It was forest. They were walking into forest._ But he blinked hard and shifted his eyes, and they were gone.

“Captain Gold?”

He hadn’t realized he’d stopped, balking in the hallway entrance, until the orderly had to take a couple of steps back toward him. Humbert reached out to touch the back of his arm, to urge him forward. He nodded, going on.

Rummond was aware of how irrational it was. They were indoors. There were no trees growing out from the walls. The floor wasn’t soft beneath his slippers. But that wasn’t what his senses had been telling him all damned day, and he couldn’t help how his heart thumped with fear.

In the next second, the trees returned. By the time he neared the office, he could hear the leaves rustle, and they would no longer be forced away. Humbert knocked, and the doctor spoke. The orderly opened the door onto a sunshiny room, the only tree in sight the one outside the window.

“Captain,” Dr. Hopper greeted him, standing from behind the desk. He waited for Rummond to cross into the room before moving to step outside. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back in.”

The door was left ajar enough to hear through the crack. “He isn’t having a good day,” he heard the orderly say. “Hasn’t said anything about it, but I believe he might be hallucinating.”

Rummond frowned as he pulled loose the strap holding the tool case closed, unrolling it on the cushion in front of him. No one could claim the orderly was unobservant.

The doctor’s reply was softer, and there were a few seconds more before he stepped inside again and closed the door. “I had something show up in the post last evening,” he said. Smiling, he brought out a small fabric pouch from his jacket pocket, and watched his patient’s hand as he reached out for it..

“The jewels?” Rummond assumed.

He opened the drawn top to verify that they were correct. Inside were a pair of miniscule rubies, folded carefully into a piece of wrapping tissue before being tucked into the little pouch. He put them away again, setting them aside until he was at the very point of putting them in. He wasn’t the steadiest today, and he’d really rather not chance losing them just because he was jumpy. There was a little he could still fuss with in the movement; he could stretch that today. He would get to the jewels next time.

Dr. Hopper went back to his desk, settling into his chair. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Just fine,” Rummond murmured, studiously not looking up.

“You aren’t feeling troubled, then? Not at all?”

His mouth twisted a bit. “I’ve had worse days.”

“Would you be willing to tell me more about your morning?” Dr. Hopper gently pressed.

Rummond tried to ignore the way the doctor’s voice thinned and echoed, as though they were outdoors. He tried desperately to work on the pocketwatch in front of him, to shut out everything aside from it and the doctor. But reality seemed intent on falling apart.

Dr. Hopper’s office grew shaded, the air heavy, and he couldn’t pull enough into his lungs. He looked to the doctor, to focus on the man and his desk - the two things that seemed the most real, the most present in the room. The pattern in the carpet warped, drawing his eye as it became leaves and grass and ground. The entire room felt as if it faded, and the doctor seemed increasingly farther away. The corners were filling with space and the blue paper of the far wall began to give way the same as the corridor had, everything closing in. He _felt_ his heart speed up again in response.

He let the screwdriver fall among the rest of the tools and dropped his head into his hands, clenching his eyes shut so hard that pain shot up the center of his forehead, trying to will it all away.

Dr. Hopper came from around his desk again, approaching his patient. Graham’s concern hadn’t been unfounded. “Captain Gold? Are you all right?” he asked. “Are you seeing something right now?” 

He took a half step back as the Captain moved, leaning forward with outstretched hands until he met with the floor. Captain Gold slid down from the sofa to kneel, shaking from head to toe.

There was no doctor, no desk, no room at all. But the trees, he recognized. And the smell. The ground felt as if it squelched under his knees, like rain-saturated soil. Red stains bloomed on his uniform trousers over his knees, and- no, not rain. 

When he wrenched his eyes away from himself, he was precisely where he expected. A small clearing, dense wood all around. He was the only living soul. All the boys - his and theirs - were ashen-skinned, long dead. There was something there that wasn’t meant to be, though. 

Rummond rose up on his hands and knees, crawling over. There, among the others, there was _his_ boy, his Neal lying on the blood-soaked ground with the young soldiers. He clambered closer, pulling Wright’s body out of the way so that he could get to him. In opposition to every nightmare he’d had of Neal being in this forest, he actually reached his son.

Neal still had pink in his lips and fingertips, still warm, but no less dead. He sat down next to the small body, tugging his son into his lap, holding him.

Dr. Hopper knelt nearby as his patient sank to the floor. And God, but Captain Gold _keened_. It sent a chill over the doctor’s skin, shaking him right through to his bones.

“Can you hear me?” he asked, making his voice clear. Not everyone could, when a hallucination dug in so stubbornly, but he had to make the attempt. If he could get through to him, he could more easily pull him back from it. “Can you tell me what you see?”

A bayonet knife protruded from Neal’s left eye. Rummond’s face went hot despite the frigid air, and he bit back a cry. His hand hesitated around the handle for a moment before he could grab hold. He tried to pull it free, but it had wedged in the bone. He recognized it - his own knife. He’d used it on the Austrian boy. But- he’d been mistaken, somehow? In his fit of berserk over his squadron, he’d been mistaken?

Understanding of what he’d done sank slowly in. He clutched Neal as tightly to him as he could, rocking him. _He’d_ killed his boy.

_Murderer._

He wanted the blade out. Out of his son, and in himself - if he could only get it pulled free, he knew which ribs to slide it between.

Captain Gold sobbed himself hoarse, crying so hard that Dr. Hopper feared he would harm himself.

“Captain?” the doctor said more loudly, talking to him to try and bring him out of it. “Captain Gold, it isn’t real. None of it is real. I need you to work your way back to me. We’re in my office; do you remember?”

When he received no reaction, he reached out. “I’m going to touch you,” he warned, and carefully laid a hand on his wrist. His patient didn’t respond. Dr. Hopper rested his fingertips over the Captain’s pulse point, and found it thundering away so fast that he couldn’t get a count on it. He needed to calm Captain Gold down somehow, and quickly.

He cast around for something to help. He had no water, and he didn’t feel secure in leaving his patient to go and fetch a glass. But he _did_ have rubbing alcohol.

Dr. Hopper hurried to the cabinet opposite his bookcase, rummaging for the infrequently used bottle. He twisted off the lid and pulled the handkerchief from his jacket pocket, soaking it through. Kneeling again next to the Captain, the doctor held the cloth to his cheek.

Rummond felt something cold and sharp, more biting than the German wind. A smell overpowered blood for once, stinging the inside of his nose and taking his breath.

He reeled back, colliding with the front of the sofa as the hospital flooded in on him. 

“It’s all right,” Dr. Hopper said, relieved to have his patient aware of his surroundings. He moved to check Captain Gold’s pulse again. “We’re in my office. You’re safe, Captain.”

Rummond looked up at Dr. Hopper in confusion, his arms closing on the memory. “I killed him. I killed him,” he repeated, pulling his hands away from the doctor to rake his hair roughly back, holding onto fistfuls of it.

“Who?” the doctor asked. “Can you tell me what you saw?”

He shook his head. He didn’t want the things he’d seen inside him, much less to give them life by speaking them aloud.

Dr. Hopper sighed, sitting back. There was no hope of continuing with the session - not with his patient in such condition. If he’d known just how badly off Captain Gold had been, he wouldn’t have brought him in, in the first place. Trying to push him to discuss anything now might well cause more harm.

“I believe that’s all for today. Why don’t we get you back to your bed?” he suggested.

“I’m sorry,” Rummond whispered, and it was all the volume he could manage. “I’m so sorry, I d- didn’t mean to-”

“It’s just fine. Don’t worry over it,” the doctor assured him.

“I didn’t mean to be a waste of your t- time.”

“No.” Dr. Hopper shook his head. “You are never a waste of time.”

Rummond fixed his eyes on the carpet, returned to its design of blue and gray flowers. He felt as if he could claw himself apart.

“I’m going to have Mr. Humbert see you to the ward, all right? I’ll check in on you a bit later.”

Nodding, Rummond murmured another, “I’m sorry…”

“We’ll try again tomorrow, if you feel up to it. I’ll find an open time for you.” The doctor gave his arm a more tentative pat before standing. “It’s all right, Captain - don’t worry. It’s more important that you take care of yourself.”

He was still curled in on himself in front of the sofa, knees drawn up close to his chest, when Graham went in. The orderly frowned. “He’ll be all right?”

“I believe so. You might see about a sedative, if he’ll have one,” Dr. Hopper told him quietly. 

“Captain?” Graham asked, squatting down. “Would you let me help you up?”

Graham could tell that he was altered without having to pull conversation from him. It was a testament to how poorly Captain Gold felt that he nodded in acceptance. 

He put an arm around Captain Gold’s back, wrapping his free hand around his nearer upper arm, and stood leant over to provide a sturdy bit of leverage as the Captain got his feet beneath him. He took the cane that leaned against the end of the sofa, offering it to the Captain, who leaned heavily on it.

“Here,” the doctor said, rolling the tool case up and giving it to Graham. “He’ll want that later.”

When Dr. Hopper opened the door, he found Dr. Coughlan standing with a hand raised to knock.

“Doctor, I need a word,” Coughlan said, not moving an inch.

“You’ll have to wait, I’m afraid. I have a patient having a difficult time, and I’m doing my best to get him back to the ward. If you will?” Dr. Hopper motioned to the side, asking Coughlan to move.

The man took the hint, stepping back into the corridor to allow Graham and Captain Gold past. As Graham guided his patient away, he could hear Dr. Coughlan ploughing ahead before even moving into the office.

“You’re a bit too personally involved with your patients, don’t you think?” Coughlan asked. 

“I would say ‘personally involved’ is a bit of an overstatement. As a psychologist, though, sympathizing with patients is a part of the job,” Dr. Hopper said, clearly peeved at being accosted when he had those very patients to look after. “ _Any_ good doctor, for that matter, cares for patients themselves, rather than seeing them as a set of limbs and organs.”

Coughlan hummed. “Such things are liable to create some tension when disagreements arise between doctors surrounding more controversial treatment methods.”

Well, the machine’s condition had been discovered, then. Archie had never made much of a secret of the fact that he didn’t care for Whale’s use of the thing. Graham only wondered how Dr. Coughlan had arrived so soon. It had been barely more than an hour since he’d overheard Whale speaking with Archie about using it.

Rummond still trembled violently, and though Humbert no longer held him up, the orderly walked alongside him with a protective hand at his back.

The nearer they got to the hospital foyer, the less he wanted to go back to the ward. He couldn’t take the surroundings of it. Not just now. He felt as if he were something fractured, shards coming loose, ready to fall apart at the slightest disturbance.

As they passed the front desk, he stopped. Humbert, eyes half on him, anyway, gave him a questioning look.

“Storage?” the orderly asked, catching on easily.

Rummond shifted his eyes away. “Please?”

The desk was empty, but the storage room was unlocked, and Humbert saw him all the way in.

Graham had no intention of leaving Captain Gold there alone. As soon as the door clicked shut, he headed directly for Belle, finding her just leaving Commander Strand’s bedside.

“Have you seen Dr. Coughlan?” she asked as soon as she saw him, frowning curiously. “Ruby says she saw him come into the hospital. There’s no inspection scheduled. Nurse Mills would be climbing the walls, if there were.” 

Graham nodded. “Coughlan was there getting a head start on giving Archie a dressing down, when I left his office. Belle, there’s-”

“Have they found it, do you think?”

“It certainly sounded as if they have,” he confirmed briefly. They could discuss Coughlan and Whale later, but right now… “You need to-”

Belle’s frown deepened. “I didn’t want Dr. Hopper to be looked at for it…”

_“Belle.”_

She blinked up at him. “What? What is it?”

“You’re needed in the storage room,” he said, tilting his head back toward Captain Gold’s bed to complete the message.

In her fluster, she only now realized that Graham had come back without Rummond. “Something’s happened.” It wasn’t a question - the look on his face left no doubt.

“He… didn’t do well during his session. I’m not sure whether they even got started properly.” He could say that, he figured. He’d been right there in the hallway, and had known as much before Archie had come to get him.

She looked for a place to leave the basin she held, finally opting to thrust it into Graham’s free hand.

“Commander Strand needs fresh sheets. Corporal Reyes asked if we could find a cup of coffee. Put those tools in the drawer, so they don’t tempt anyone,” she rattled off, drying her damp hands on her apron as she all but ran for the door.


	48. Solace

It was the most dreaded of his nightmares, brought right out in front of him and taken to an end he’d never seen. He could feel his son, cold, limp, heavy in his arms. Could smell the blood. Rummond dragged his hands through his hair again, as though he could physically pull out the images left behind.

He dropped his hands into his lap and his head back against the wall. It made a satisfying sound. Better - it drew pain away from his eyes, sending a burn of electricity down the nerves of his neck.

Belle slowed when she neared the end of the ward hallway to avoid drawing attention, just in case anyone was about. An orderly emerged from the corridor directly across, but he turned to go onto the west ward; she paused only long enough to make certain of it.

She opened the storage room door slowly. She wasn’t sure what condition Rummond was in, but she didn’t want to startle him. 

“Rummond?” she said, pulling the door closed behind her.

His cane had been discarded in the middle of the room. Belle bent to pick it up and made her way toward the back, frowning as the quiet was interrupted by a soft _thud_. After a couple of steps, she heard it again.

“Graham said that you might’ve had a difficult time during your appointment…” she continued. “Rummond?”

She came around the shelving, and discovered the source of the sound as he tipped his head back so that it hit the wall behind him. His cheeks were blotched with red, eyes swollen. He seemed dazed. She wasn’t sure whether he’d even heard her. What could have happened while he was in with Dr. Hopper, to leave him like this?

She laid his cane on a nearby box, dropping to her knees next to him, and put her hand at the back of his head before it met the wall again. “Stop. Please, stop?”

Rummond couldn’t look at her, but he listened. He hung his head, looking down at his lap, where he’d gotten his robe belt half pulled from its loops to wind one end tightly around his fingers. Her hand held there for a moment.

When she was sure he was done, she moved to pull the blanket and pillow from their hiding place. “Here,” she said, urging him off the cold floor, “Up a bit.” He shifted just enough to get the blanket underneath him, and she knew that he took in what she said, at least.

Belle turned and sat down, just near enough that her upper arm touched his. She could feel the tremors that ran through him. “Do you want to talk? Don’t feel forced to, but I’m here, if you need.”

He didn’t respond, and after a few moments, she began to assume that it would be a situation of nothing more than companionable silence.

“I wish I could _sleep_ ,” he said eventually, his voice weak and rasping, as if it had been exhausted right out of him. “Feels as though I’m being punished.”

“How long has it been?” she asked. If he would talk about anything at all, she’d encourage him.

“Weeks. Since I’ve strung together more than an hour in a row? Weeks.” He nodded, and the motion made him wince. “If it isn’t downright not being able to drop off, it’s nightmares. I’m _tired_ ,” his voice cracked. His eyes filled with desperate, frustrated tears that slid down his cheeks, in pursuit of all the rest he’d failed to choke down this morning.

“If I could give you sleep…” Belle sighed. She ached to put her arms around him, but he was so closed in on himself, she was unsure whether he would accept the gesture or shrug away. The point of contact between their arms seemed safe, for now.

Quinine water didn’t help him. She’d considered giving him a bit of Luminal. A piece - just enough to make him sleep. But she worried if it was wise to drug him with that in particular, or whether he might not be able to wake himself if a nightmare grabbed hold. The state he was in, there was too much that might cause more harm than good.

Rummond’s head felt heavy, his thoughts slow. His heart beat strangely, but he wouldn’t tell her that part. She’d go fussing over him with a stethoscope again. 

A wave of forest and blood passed over him. There was the sensation of weight in his arms again, and he felt a surge of panic. His shaking grew worse, and he fought to untangle his hands, gasping, “I c- I can’t breathe-” 

Belle turned to better face him, reaching up to touch him, to run her hand over his hair. She meant to ground him and draw his attention, but the sudden contact made him flinch away. She cringed in sympathy.

“You remember what I told you?” She guided him into the exercise she’d shown him weeks ago - breathing in, counting, breathing out, counting. She had seen him going through the motions of it once or twice on the ward. 

It took a good while, but he calmed. His breathing didn’t quite return to normal - it was still too quick, still too shallow - but it was closer. 

“Can you tell me anything?” she asked, petting his hair in long, soothing motions down the back, relieved when he no longer startled. “Anything about what’s upset you so badly?”

Rummond wrapped his arms tightly around his middle, making himself smaller. “I was in the forest again.”

“ _That_ forest?”

He nodded carefully in an attempt to avoid provoking a fresh wave of headache. “It wasn’t real, but it _was_. There’ve been nightmares, but- It was around me, in me- I smelled the smothered fire, could feel burrs and twigs sticking at me through my uniform-” His explanation seemed to come out in disjointed fits and starts, much as he tried to piece it together properly. 

“I know,” she interrupted him when it seemed he would become overwrought again. “I know they feel real. But it wasn’t. You’re right here.”

“I thought it was the same thing always comes after me in bits and pieces. There was more of it. _Everywhere_. It was the forest. The Austrians. Bleeding through all over.” His arm freed itself momentarily, so that he could gesture out before him. He held his hand palm down, fingers arced as though he meant to reach for something. “He was there,” Rummond whispered.

“The soldier?” Belle asked, remembering all too clearly what he’d told her about his days on the ground in Germany.

He shook his head and drew his arm back, wrapping it around himself again. His throat clicked, and he had to swallow before he could get the name out. “Neal.”

Her stomach dropped. _“Your son?”_ she blurted, perhaps a bit too sharply, because he recoiled.

His shoulders tensed, muscles turning tight as a bowstring. “What I did to the Austrian boy. It had been done to my son.”

“Someone… He was…?” she asked, for some reason unable to quite say it in relation to the child.

There had been a good many children lost in the war. Bombings, accidents. The Germans had abducted hundreds of young homeless children - little girls, for the most part - for use in intelligence missions. She’d known the fact of it vaguely when she started out, and far more clearly through the reports of nurses with haunted faces, but she’d had the good fortune to never have seen any of them with her own eyes.

“My knife. _I’d_ done it.” His voice grew thin and wavering, and he leaned forward, over his knees. He could feel the warmth of blood between his fingers, and he dug his fingertips hard into his ribs. He wanted to _scream,_ to wail until his voice gave and his lungs were raw and he’d ripped the feeling of it out of the middle of him. “I killed him. My boy. He trusted me. I killed him.”

The words sounded as if they were serrated, sawing their way out of him. Belle let her hand move to his back, resting it between his shoulderblades. “You didn’t do it.”

Dr. Hopper could analyze the entire thing, if Rummond would let him, but she had no interest in picking apart the meaning of his monstrosity of a hallucination. Her interest lay in comforting him, and in reassuring him of the fact that he hadn’t done such a thing.

“Your mind is lying to you. You know that, don’t you?” she asked gently, leaning a little. She couldn’t see his face, his hair having fallen to hide him, but she caught the smallest of nods. “I’ve heard how you talk about him. I’ve seen how you look at that photograph. You would never harm your son.”

“How can I know?” he murmured, muffled through position and tears. “Once I thought I’d never cause harm to anyone. And how that turned out.”

It wasn’t something she could simply talk him out of believing about himself, and she knew it. She sighed, frowning, and gave his back a brisk rub where her hand lay. “Sit back for me?”

It took him a few moments to gather enough wits about him to do as she asked, and it took an absurd amount of effort to perform the simple task of leaning back. He didn’t feel as though he could have moved had the hospital caught fire. His head hurt so much worse, now - pain gnawing greedily behind his eyes, so powerful that it brought a wave of nausea with it.

Rummond tried to fix his attention on the spot of warmth that concentrated beneath and haloed around her hand at his back, and it seemed to help a little. 

He wanted more. More contact, more warmth. The need grew, hot and stinging beneath his sternum, until it pushed through the certainty that he didn’t deserve either long enough for him to reach out. His hands lowered again, and he reached for the hand that still rested in her lap. She moved, and for a split second, he thought she meant to pull away.

Belle turned her hand over, though, and her fingers laced between his before closing tightly. Not entirely of his own will, he clung to her hand as if it were a lifeline. She squeezed right back, and somehow, her simple gesture finished off the already compromised dam.

There was the burning behind his eyes and in his lungs again, and he shook all the harder with the effort of holding it down. He’d done _enough_ crying for one day - he didn’t want it again. He held his breath in an attempt to will it away, and his body convulsed with the struggle against it, curling tighter in on himself. He broke with a yelp. 

Belle didn’t let go, but pulled him toward her with the hand at his back. For an instant, he resisted. When he yielded, turning toward her, she curled her arm around him in assurance that he was wanted there. His free arm came up to wrap around her, stronger than he looked in his clinging. Between them, she held onto his hand. She could feel the difference between his nervous shakes and the sobbing tremors that went through him, and both made her hurt for him. Belle squeezed her eyes shut against the sting at the corners of them.

She let him cry himself into exhaustion. It might have been the best thing for him, she considered, this emotional tumult. Perhaps the catharsis and spending everything he had would help him to rest. Would that _anything_ good might come of the suffering of it.

The sounds of his grief faded. She held him as tightly as he held onto her, giving soft shushes, talking to him. They were nonsense, calming, placating words spoken near his ear. Gradually, even the greater part of his shaking stopped. 

She half expected him to move, to separate himself and pull back inside his shell again, but he lingered. He seemed content to stay there, and she was content to let him. It was difficult for her to imagine, having never been _truly_ alone in her life, but every once in a while it occurred to her all over again how isolated he had become before he managed to bring himself to the hospital. The more she learned, the more both his withdrawn moments and the flickers of need she saw in him made sense in so many ways.

Rummond’s arm around her slipped away, and she loosened her hold on him. He sat back, blinking slowly, working to regain some equilibrium.

“Do you feel better?” she began, but it crossed with his words.

At the same time, he offered a quiet, “I’m sorry-”

“Stop, right there,” she said. “There is nothing here for you to apologize over.”

He met her eyes for a moment before ducking his head. She watched him. His hand relaxed a bit in hers, and the tension in his shoulders seemed to have let go. His blinks grew longer, and his breathing was easy, now, if uneven. It was the calmest she’d seen him in days. When he didn’t look up after a while, she tugged at his hand. She didn’t want to push him back onto the ward. It would be counterproductive, to make him go back in like this.

“Come here,” Belle invited, her voice soft. He might balk, but she decided to try, hoping that he might be docile enough to allow himself after the day he’d had. “Lie down and rest.”

Rummond looked to her face, his eyes glassy, weary. He didn’t understand what she meant for him to do, at first. It wasn’t until she patted her leg that he caught on. 

He hesitated, waiting to make certain she meant what he thought. She gave another encouraging pull at his hand, only releasing it as he finally began to ease down. He tucked the top of his shoulder against the outside of her leg, resting his head on her lap. Between her cotton dress, her petticoat, and _her_ , it was soft, and though the material of her apron was cool, it warmed quickly.

Belle waited until he’d settled with his arms wrapped more loosely around himself, and she draped her arm over his side to seek out his hand again. He took it readily, their hands caught together, this time, rather than threaded.

Even if he couldn’t _sleep_ , Belle thought, perhaps he would remain calm enough here to rest a bit.

He was quiet for a long while, and if it hadn’t been for his breathing still holding onto the soft hiccups of the sort that followed a hard cry, she might have thought he _had_ managed to drop off.

“Talk to me?” he asked, a shy tilt to the question that tugged at her heart. His accent was heavy, his words beginning to slur together with fatigue, now the knife-edge of his panic had passed.

Belle smiled, moving her unoccupied hand to pet his hair. “What would you have me talk about, then?”

She’d told him about so many of the patients and nurses, and his mind cast sluggishly around for something new. The stories she gave him were easy to hear - simple information about others’ lives that sometimes made it easier to interact with them by virtue of knowing it, when he had to. 

He remembered seeing something that piqued his curiosity, but he had second thoughts over mentioning it. It could be a terribly sensitive thing. It _was_ , generally, which had contributed to his surprise in witnessing it.

“You and the orderly, Humbert - you’re friends, the two of you.”

“We are,” she agreed. “Quite good friends.”

“Humbert and Dr. Hopper. They have a… _friendship?”_ He said the word with a bit of insinuation behind it, to add further meaning. 

Belle’s eyes widened a bit. Oh, she really did need to mention to Graham to be far more careful. She didn’t realize that she’d gone so long without answering, until Rummond turned his head a little, enough to look up at her. When he did, she looked back at him as if searching him for intent. There was no malice or agenda there, though. All she found was curiosity.

“Graham… Well, he… He and Dr. Hopper…” She smiled. “Graham and Dr. Hopper have a streak of lavender.”

 _“Ah,”_ Rummond said quietly. It wasn’t a flooring revelation. 

Belle waited. She’d become accustomed to the negative reaction that discovering this particular detail about a person tended to bring with it. Graham and Dr. Hopper were tight-lipped, though. That Rummond saw anything to make him wonder was a surprise. She found that it was important to her, how he reacted, and she desperately didn’t want to be disappointed.

He hummed softly, turning his face away from her again. “I saw… something that appeared very affectionate between them. I only wondered,” he explained. “I would never tell. I wouldn’t endanger them.”

“Thank you,” Belle said, and she resumed stroking his hair when she realized she’d left off in her worry. She could have sworn to _feeling_ her fondness for him grow in that moment.

“It’s why Graham worries over Dr. Hopper’s mother,” she continued. She didn’t know whether he found it odd, Graham knowing so much about the doctor’s home situation, when they’d talked about it. “He takes care of her when he’s home. There’s a private nurse, but they can’t afford to have her there twenty-four hours a day. The hours she’s there while they work are stretching them thin, as it is.”

“Dr. Hopper’s not given in on a hospital yet?” Rummond asked.

“Not just yet.” She smiled, pleased that he remembered. “You don’t think there’s anything wrong with it?” she pressed a bit.

He could have made some quip about hospitals to tease her with a purposeful misunderstanding, but he found that he didn’t quite have the energy for it. He knew what she meant. “Not that it would be any of my business, but…” He shook his head. “Everyone needs someone. I’m no one to dictate who might be allowed to fall in love.”

Belle stared down at him for a moment, unable to find words quickly enough. She lifted her hand from his hair, pressing a kiss to her fingers, and touched them to his face.

His cheek warmed. Knowing what she’d done created an odd, pleasant tightening in his chest. “What was that meant for?”

“I feel as though you’re a rare specimen,” she admitted.

“Sometime, I shall have to tell you tales of living aboard a naval vessel,” he said, a smile ghosting across his face before fading away again. He’d tell her of his Aunties, sometime, as well. But the emotions there were too complex to risk unearthing just now.

“I would like that,” Belle told him.

He rubbed his cheek against her apron once, back and forth, before he stilled. A comfortable quiet fell over them. After a while, she realized that the hitches in his breathing had stopped.

“Rummond?” she whispered, just enough above her breath that he could hear, if he were present. He didn’t answer.

She gave in to a deep sigh of relief. Slowly, she reached up to check her watch. Her lunch hour was only a few minutes away. She wouldn’t disturb him; she needn’t, not for a while yet.

Resting her hand carefully at the side of his head, she tilted her own back to lean it against the wall, closing her eyes.


	49. Twice and Thrice Over

Dr. Robert Coughlan had been haunting the hospital all week, ostensibly continuing his investigation. Belle had only seen him in the hallways perhaps three times, herself. She wondered what he was doing to justify taking so much time away from what was surely an important schedule. Thankfully, Dr. Whale wasn’t allowing him to go around harassing patients, but there were _not_ enough employees to take up a full five days of interviews.

She caught Nurse Nolan letting Ruby into the supply closet, and slipped in after her once the head nurse’s assistant had walked away. There were a few things she needed to get, but they were beside her immediate purpose.

“Dr. Coughlan is around again today,” Belle said as she took a pair of sturdy scissors from the shelf next to her friend. “I’m beginning to wonder if he intends on setting up house.”

Ruby glanced over from where she sat perched on a stool at the counter, bent over a small beaker of an opaque yellow potassium iodide solution in progress. She could hear the unspoken concern in Belle’s voice - not that it was well-hidden. “He means to speak to a few more nurses today.”

Belle frowned. “He’s been speaking to people since Monday afternoon.”

“Occasionally.” Ruby grinned, lifting more granules from a jar with the end of a slender metal spatula. She tipped them into the beaker and tapped the edge carefully before setting the instrument down. “He does far more than that.”

“That, I assumed. There’s only so long one could conduct interviews, and I haven’t heard anyone complain of spending hours with the man.” Belle raised up onto her toes to take one of the small, glass bottles of aspirin down from the shelf. She meant it for a particular need, but it would likely be gone before the day was.

“I’m sure _someone_ is spending hours with him. But that’s none of my business.” Ruby stirred the liquid, eyebrows raised.

“Nurse Mills?” Belle ventured. It hadn’t escaped her notice that the head nurse was far less omnipresent when Dr. Coughlan was on the grounds, and that did seem a bit telling.

Ruby shrugged, giving Belle a sidelong look. “I didn’t say it, and I haven’t seen proof.”

“But?”

_“But,_ she’s been acting strangely this week. You’ve seen the way she behaves when he’s around.”

That was a bit too much for Belle to think about, and one thing she didn’t particularly want to know. “Do you know anything about Dr. Coughlan’s suspicions?”

“Not much,” Ruby said. She sat back, leaving the solution to settle. “Victor gave him a full list of employees, and he’s taken suggestions regarding who should be questioned in particular. As far as I know, he hasn’t said anything to Victor about suspects.”

“Taken suggestions?” Belle turned to bring a small basin out from a lower cupboard. She could imagine who Dr. Coughlan was taking suggestions from.

“Mhm,” Ruby chirped, and Belle saw by the wry expression on her friend’s face that they shared the thought.

She knew good and well that Nurse Mills suspected her. The head nurse had made a snide remark earlier in the week about the convenience of the machine’s mishap. It had been said in passing, presumably, but it set Belle’s nerves on end.

Ruby returned to her task, preparing the syringe so that she could get the solution drawn up. “You’re afraid Dr. Coughlan will figure out that you had a hand in what happened to Victor’s machine?”

Belle stilled, giving her a wary look.

“You thought I wouldn’t know.” Ruby’s attention didn’t shift, but her lips turned up in an amused little smirk.

“Is it that obvious?” Belle asked. Her stomach felt as if someone had tied a knot in it halfway through.

“Not to anyone who isn’t me. Few things in this hospital escape my notice.” Ruby looked up to find Belle worrying at her lip. She grew more serious. “Don’t worry, I’d never tell anyone. Not even Victor.”

“You’re certain no one else knows?” Aside from Graham and Rummond, both of whom she’d told, herself. She wouldn’t bring them into this, though.

“Not that I know of, and that’s the kind of thing that would get around.”

Belle took her scissors from the counter, looking down as she opened and closed them. “Does Dr. Whale suspect?”

“All I know is what I hear and see around, and what Victor says. Of course, Victor says a lot. There are certain times when he’s very talkative.” Ruby grinned. “But he hasn’t said anything to that effect.”

“He seems to give me an odd look whenever we cross paths…”

“Oh, he’s odd altogether. You know that. And he loved that ridiculous machine. He likely suspects the entire hospital, to some degree.”

Belle considered that maybe she’d been imagining it. She didn’t feel _guilty_ about it, really. To feel guilty, she’d have to feel that what she’d done was wrong, and she certainly didn’t feel that. She was glad to have destroyed the thing. What she felt was a fear of being caught at having done it, she rationalized.

Ruby drew the syringe a bit less than half full. She turned it upright and gave the barrel a tap, before pressing out the bubble that formed at the top. “You can call him Victor, by the by.”

“No, I don’t think I could…” Belle gave her friend a smile. “It would feel too familiar.”

After a quick search of the countertop, Ruby located the bit of cork for the end of the needle and replaced it.

“Has he said anything about Dr. Hopper?” Belle asked, still worrying that he might be blamed.

Ruby shook her head, turning on the stool. “Coughlan has pretty much decided that Dr. Hopper had nothing to do with it. Something about Dr. Hopper hating the machine, but that he ‘isn’t the sort to destroy hospital property.’”

She _was_ the kind, then, she supposed. Belle choked back a laugh. “Do you suppose Dr. Coughlan is winding down his investigation?” she asked hopefully.

“It seems he’s getting close. It isn’t as if he’s going to _find_ anything. If anyone here did do it, no one would confess. And if anyone were going to rat someone else out, they’d have done it by now.” Ruby stood, tucking the syringe carefully into her apron pocket. “I think he means to talk to a few more people, but he seems near being done with it all.”

Belle picked up the basin and walked out with Ruby, stopping to take a washcloth from the linen cupboard next to the door on her way. “Who is the potassium iodide for?” she asked when Ruby turned to head away from the ward. 

“Victor has Captain Lapointe in an examination room. Abscess in his jaw.” Ruby pulled a bit of a face.

“Poor man. That’ll be the third tooth he’s lost since he arrived.”

“The hazards of being at sea for weeks at a time. I’ll be back in when it’s done.”

Belle stopped by the nurses’ washroom before continuing on to the ward. She ran hot water into the basin and added just a few soap flakes - enough to help clean, but not so many that the water would be slick.

“What do you think of being rid of those bandages?” she asked, giving Rummond a smile as she went over. He appeared more cheerful in response to her suggestion than he’d looked all week long.

“You’ll take it off?” He sat up, his blanket sliding off his shoulder.

“I think it would be all right.” Three weeks were far longer than she’d thought he would tolerate it. “Does it hurt, still? When you walk? When you’re resting, no weight on it?”

Rummond turned, moving so that he sat with his legs hanging off the side of the bed. “No worse than before,” he told her. It wasn’t a perfect truth, but the pain had been lingering at the same level for a good while, now. He didn’t expect it to get much better.

She knelt in front of him, setting the basin next to her on the floor, and took the heavy scissors from her pocket. She easily found the strip of cotton that lay beneath the gauze. “The scissors might be cold,” she warned, smiling up at him before sliding the blade in beneath the top edge, “but I won’t let the point catch you.”

It didn’t take her long to cut through the wrappings on his leg. Stiff as they felt, they were thin enough that they didn’t put up much resistance. As soon as she’d snipped through to the opening around his toes, he flexed his ankle. He winced as pain shot up his leg, glad that Belle wasn’t looking when he did.

The layers of gauze came away as a whole. “There we go!” she said, setting them aside.

“At last.” Rummond gave her a look of mock scolding. “Now I can sit properly in a bath again.”

“You’ll still need to be careful on it.”

“Suppose I can promise not to go running out through the hospital lawn?”

Belle grinned, relieved by his teasing. It meant that his mood had improved, if only marginally. She hoped it meant he might attend his appointment with Dr. Hopper today.

She took the washcloth from the water and wrung it out, gently cleaning his leg while he looked anywhere but _at_ her.

“Does your head still hurt?” she asked, washing carefully along his scars. “I noticed you squinting when the sun got high enough to shine in.”

“A bit,” he allowed. His head had hurt to one extremity or another since the hallucinations had gotten their claws in last. At least _they_ hadn’t reared their heads again.

Belle finished with his leg and took the bottle from her pocket. “Here,” she said, holding her hand out so that he would extend his, and she shook a pair of aspirin into the cup of his palm. She tucked the bottle away again and began cleaning up. “I’ll get you some water.”

He’d been thinking about the storage room - or rather, a particular hour spent there - all week. What he could remember, he went through over and over in his head, alternately cringing at and clinging to moments. He regarded Belle curiously when came by to sit with him as she always did, treating him no differently, as though he hadn’t had an utter nervous breakdown in front of her.

He had begun trying to help himself sleep with the memory of his head on her lap. For the most part, it had done little more than make him long for contact again. The one night it seemed to have worked fell on her Wednesday night shift, with her quiet presence in her corner chair. He’d lain looking at her - the glow of the lantern surrounding her and her textbook, an expression of concentration on her face - until he managed to relax. It had been well into the early hours, he figured, but he had dropped off at some point and woke just a bit after dawn in surprise that he’d slept at all. Those hours added up to more sleep than he’d gotten in perhaps the past two weeks.

Onto the ward stepped Humbert, and no mistake, the orderly’s eyes were trained directly on him when he came through the door. Rummond pulled his legs back onto his bunk and reached for the blankets. 

Dr. Hopper had worked a session in for him on Tuesday afternoon, and he’d declined. Declined in the form of shying away when Humbert came by to fetch him, but all the same. He had done so again when it came to his customary Wednesday appointment, reluctant to face the doctor after the spectacle he’d made of himself. 

“Captain Gold,” Humbert greeted, stopping next to the bunk and crossing his arms loosely over his chest. He smiled.

Rummond eyed him. “I’m not sure I-”

“Dr. Hopper asked me to tell you that you need not come down to the office, if you don’t feel up to it. He says he’ll come to the ward for your talk, if you’d be more comfortable.”

Rummond thought he could feel the blood drain from his face. It was a kind offer, but the idea of speaking with the doctor here on the ward as they spoke in the privacy of his office made him want to fall right through the floor.

“No,” he said, shaking his head and giving in. “I’ll come down.”

Belle returned with a cup of water as he was getting his feet into his slippers. He dropped the tablets into the back of his mouth and washed them down quickly. Reaching for his cane had become habit, and it may as well have done. He knew that he couldn’t yet walk without it, and was well aware that he might never, much as that stung.

He left the tools in his drawer, knowing what the doctor would want to discuss, and knowing just as well that his hands wouldn’t cooperate in the face of going back through it again.

Dr. Hopper stood waiting outside his office when they rounded the corner into the stretch of west wing corridor. The doctor smiled, pushing his door open. “I’m glad you’ve decided to come in today,” he said, stepping inside ahead of his patient.

“Under duress,” Rummond muttered. He went to his spot at the end of the sofa, tucking himself into it.

The doctor exchanged a smile with Humbert before he closed the door. “How are you feeling today?” he asked, taking his place at his desk, arranging pen and file as they usually sat.

“Fine,” Rummond answered shortly. “A bit kidnapped, but otherwise.”

“I apologize for the insistence. It isn’t something I typically do.”

“I’ve been avoiding my appointments.” The doctor had allowed it longer than Rummond thought he would. It wasn’t as if he were angry over being pushed into keeping his appointment. Only, again, nervous over the entire ordeal.

“I believe I understand why. It’s the reason I offered to visit you this time. It can be difficult, associating a place you have to return to with a negative feeling.”

Rummond glanced up. He shouldn’t be so surprised at the doctor hitting the nail so squarely on the head, but it was _strange,_ having someone describe a thing he’d only felt in abstract with such accuracy.

“Would you mind if we talked over what happened the last time we met?” Dr. Hopper asked. “In your own time. But it _is_ something I feel needs to be discussed.”

“It started out a nightmare,” Rummond admitted, looking at his hands. He drew the end of his robe belt between his fingers, careful of the fretted end of it. “I’ve had it often since…” 

Dr. Hopper waited a moment, to see whether he would complete the thought. “Since what occurred in Germany?” he asked quietly.

“Mm.” Rummond shifted uncomfortably. “It’s never been like that - what I saw. In the nightmare, I can never get to him.”

“Who can’t you get to?” the doctor asked. The Captain had said something about a ‘him’ in the aftermath of the hallucination, but no more.

“My son. He’s always just sitting there, out of my reach.” He looked up at the doctor again. “And I’m well aware what that bit is about. I don’t need it analyzed.”

“But your hallucination was something more?”

Rummond tried to sink further into the cushions. “A great deal more.”

“Would you feel comfortable telling me about it?” Dr. Hopper asked, silently turning a clean page on which to make notes.

Rummond took a deep breath, releasing it slowly, and dove in. He did his best to detail the hallucinations that had hounded him since the wee hours of Monday, from waking to the smell of forest, all the way down to the trees in the hallways, and into the worst of it in the doctor’s office.

Twice Dr. Hopper had gently interrupted to ask if he felt sure about going on, but he’d begun, and this wasn’t something he wanted to spread over days. Rummond found himself shaking again, and wrapped his arms around himself in an attempt to either hide it or stop it - he wasn’t quite sure which. When he had to explain what he’d seen involving Neal, he could no longer hold back tears, though he ignored them as best he could. By now, he knew they were inevitable.

The doctor waited for him to gather himself, when he’d at last gotten through it. It seemed to take a very long time, and Rummond wasn’t at all sure how long he’d been there. He felt as if he’d taken a step aside from reality, something about it making him dizzy and sunken-hearted.

At some point, the doctor had taken a chair to sit nearer him. He found an odd comfort in it, despite not having realized when it happened.

“You’ve never had a hallucination so consuming of your senses?” Dr. Hopper asked when his patient appeared a good bit calmer.

“Never,” Rummond whispered, shaking his head. His jaw tightened, the muscles working for a moment before he could make himself ask, “It means I’m getting worse, doesn’t it?”

“No, I don’t believe that’s at all what it means.” Dr. Hopper sat forward, hands folded together and arms leaning on his knees. He smiled reassuringly at his patient. “I think… You’ve been unable to sleep. You’ve been unable to eat as often as you should. Those in themselves are incredibly stressful. It’s for good reason that militaries around the world employ both methods of deprivation as devices of torture. But on top of it, you have an injury that adds a great deal _more_ stress to everything you do, right now. I believe that you had a very bad day, Captain Gold.”

Rummond huffed a humorless laugh. “That would be understating it a bit.”

“Having a bad day, or having hallucinations bothering you - neither of those mean you’re getting worse. I still believe that you’re getting better, Captain. You’ve worked a long way toward it, but it _is_ a long road, you understand.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Dr. Hopper made sure that his patient was steadier in spirit before dismissing him with the suggestion that he forgive himself for such seeming ‘setbacks.’ They would need to discuss the Captain’s surety that symptoms only signaled that he was getting worse, but today had held trauma enough.

Rummond walked alongside Humbert, no longer caring to be relieved of having a chaperone to and from appointments. The orderly was fine enough company - for the most part because of the fact that he rarely demanded conversation on their short walks. Being required to hold conversation after sessions with the doctor would be more than he could withstand. The odd exhaustion that came afterward rested on him like a cloak lined in lead, making him heavy and slow. He felt as if he leaned more on his cane with every step.

They rounded from the hallway into the foyer, and at the entry of the east wing, there stood Belle. Rummond managed a smile, until he saw this Dr. Coughlan who had for days been plaguing the hospital. His stomach turned. Belle was being questioned.

Once they’d passed by and gone a bit down the way, Rummond stopped. He expected Humbert to hurry him along, but when he glanced over, the orderly had stopped to look back with a good amount of consternation on his own face.

“It’s come to my attention that you weren’t exactly a supporter of electric shock therapy,” Coughlan said, already insinuating. _“And_ that you were recently given a temporary reassignment as disciplinary action.”

At that, Belle knew precisely how it had ‘come to his attention.’ Last she’d heard, the story was that she had asked to be reassigned, herself. My, how Nurse Mills twisted her claims to fit a situation. She could play along with that game.

“You’ve heard correctly on both counts,” she said, threading her fingers together and letting her hands rest down the front of her apron. She smiled, not terribly certain she kept _all_ of the sarcasm from her tone as she went on. “However, I am not a doctor. It is neither my _place_ nor my responsibility to discern whether a patient is in need of such treatments.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not really. Whether she’d acted outside of her station and responsibilities hadn’t been a part of the question.

“I hear you’ve been upset over some less than ideal outcomes of the therapy?” he asked, glancing down the hallway at the pair of men looking back.

“Of course I have. Who wouldn’t be upset over losing patients?” Belle challenged him.

Coughlan blinked. “Quite right…” he agreed, though he appeared surprised by it. “It might be understandable, someone taking measures to ensure they didn’t lose more patients in such a way.”

“It might.” She held onto her level smile, not in the least fooled by his pretended sympathies. “I wouldn’t know what measures you mean.” 

Dr. Coughlan looked down the corridor again, finding the men still there. “Carry on,” he called down to them.

Humbert made a low, irritated sound, and touched Rummond’s shoulder to prompt him to continue to the ward. 

“She’ll be all right,” the orderly said, ushering Rummond over to his bunk, though he didn’t sound wholly convinced. “She’s got a sharp tongue and a level head… most of the time. She’ll be fine.”

Rummond was entirely unconvinced, but there was little he could do about it just now. A patient jumping to her defense would cause more harm than good. Particularly a patient in his position.

He was still shaken inside after talking through all he had with Dr. Hopper, and his thorough exhaustion only compounded the feeling. He was tempted to bury himself in blankets for the remainder of the day. At least until Belle could come back in. He might even be able to find sleep again, the way he felt. Shrugging out of his robe, he crawled into his bunk and sorted out the tangle of his covers, deciding to attempt just that. 

Rummond closed his eyes, and was beginning to work on convincing his body that this was a safe time and place to rest, when he heard the door swing open and a small voice cry out across the ward.

_“Papa!”_


	50. Snips and Snails

_“Papa!”_

The familiar little voice stopped his heart.

No. He was hallucinating. He had to be. Dr. Hopper was right about the stress. 

Still, he couldn’t help but open his eyes and look to the front of the ward.

There stood Milah, Neal yanking at her hand, trying to pull away while she looked around. Rummond sat up, breath caught in his throat.

She finally let go, snapping, “Oh, go on, then!”

Rummond stared, unable to believe, unable to do so much as speak as his son launched for him. Neal beamed, bright as a ray of sunshine. He flung himself into his father’s arms, where Rummond wrapped him up in a fierce hug. The familiar feeling of his son’s arms around his neck sent a wave of ache through him.

He was bigger than Rummond remembered - but of course he would be. He’d had nearly a year and a half of growth since Rummond had last seen him. 

Milah walked over, announced by the slow click of her shoes. He remembered liking the sound of her steps, once. A very long time ago. Now it only made him hold more tightly to his son.

“Milah…” he greeted cautiously, so far out of his depth he could practically feel water lapping at his chin. He hadn’t seen his wife - _ex-_ wife - in as long as he hadn’t seen his son, and he’d have been lying to himself if he pretended to know how to react.

Her own greeting was terse, dispassionate. “Rummond.”

Neal began to squirm, and Rummond loosened his hold a little. “Hi, Papa,” his son said, looking up with another of those sweet, bright smiles.

Rummond smiled back at him, because he couldn’t not. “Hello, duckling,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to Neal’s forehead.

Belle’s patience had run out a half dozen questions ago. Dr. Coughlan grew repetitive, as if he thought he might trip her into confessing with some vague difference in the order of his words, and she’d have walked away if she weren’t fairly certain that he would apply some condemnation to her leaving.

“Doctor…” she sighed after he’d asked a second variation on whether she was upset over the ‘occasional’ negative effects that Whale’s machine was capable of. “I have patients who need attention, tasks that need seeing to, and this is taking time from my day that I cannot spare. Are we nearing the end of your interrogation?”

Coughlan appeared taken a bit aback at her response, but he gave her a brusque nod. “I’ll find you if I have further questions.”

“Thank you,” she said, walking away before he could find something more to ask, not slowing until she was back on the ward. Thus far, Coughlan _seemed_ no more suspicious of her than he was of anyone else. He’d asked as many general questions as he’d asked directly regarding herself. She would need to assure Rummond and Graham that everything was fine, as far as the investigation went, despite the way it continued to make her stomach turn.

Belle didn’t allow herself an easy breath until the ward door closed behind her. She had taken two steps in the direction of Rummond’s bed when she realized he had a visitor, and it brought her up a bit short.

She’d seen the woman pass them in the hallway. At just that moment, Coughlan had asked whether she knew anyone else on staff who might have reason to destroy hospital property, and her attention had necessarily remained on him. Now, though, seeing her with Rummond, she had a strong suspicion as to who this was.

From behind, all Belle could see was dark hair, rolled on the sides and arranged into a large, bunned coiffure at the back of her head, and a great deal of orange velvet. After a few moments, the woman moved, no longer directly in front of Rummond. Belle saw the child in his arms, and she _knew._

She wasn’t sure whether she should intrude. He hadn’t seen his son in so long, and the conversation didn’t appear heated. Her gaze flicked between Rummond and his ex-wife. It didn’t seem to be much of a conversation, after all. The woman was obviously speaking, but Belle had yet to see Rummond reply. When she noticed him shift, ever-so-subtly pulling away, her feet took her over automatically.

Rummond busied himself with Neal. He drew his son’s foot up to tie his shoe, and tugged his trouser cuff back down when he was done. The trousers were an inch too short, and thinned nearly to fraying at the knees. His shoes had been scuffed right down to the undergrain of the leather. Milah had plenty of money by means of Jones, if both his and her manner of dress were any indication. Why couldn’t she keep their son in decent clothing, as well? 

The boy’s fingernails were dirty. There was a smudge of something at the corner of his mouth. Rummond could _see_ tangles in his son’s hair. He felt a surge of anger build inside him. When was the last time Neal had a bath?

He bit back on the feeling. Showing anger in front of Milah had always been a mistake, even when they were on good terms. She would turn it around on him, he knew from experience. It had been a good while, but he’d retained that much instinct in her presence.

“I did hear a while ago that you’d been committed.” Milah’s mouth twisted in something he was sure she meant as _some_ manner of smile. “I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, but I see, now.”

“Captain Gold, you have a visitor?” Belle said as she approached, and his heart leapt into his throat in relief.

Milah didn’t so much as look at her. “Still using your rank, are you? I thought that was stripped with the shame of a treason trial.”

Belle didn’t flinch from the woman’s snub in the least. “Our servicemen here use their ranks as they wish, trial or no.” 

Rummond looked between the two of them. “Milah, this is Nurse Belle French,” he introduced, finding some small measure of comfort in observing gentilities. “Nurse French, this is Milah… My ex-wife,” he went on after a brief hesitation, not quite certain which surname she might be going by.

At last, Milah acknowledged Belle’s existence. She gave her a look up and down in obvious appraisal. “How pleasant to meet you,” she said, and though superficially quite polite, there was an oddly combative edge to her voice.

Belle kept her own observations far more subtle. Milah was tall, statuesque, and finely dressed right down to a matching set of jewels. Her velvet dress had a slim black underskirt and chiffon sleeves that fluttered at her sides, and Belle recognized the cut from some of the fashion plates that Ruby enjoyed poring over. It was the very height of autumn style. She had a haughty way about her, though with less certainty to the affectation than Nurse Mills’ similar mien.

Belle smiled, her reply a short, “Likewise.” She turned to Rummond. “And who is this?”

She saw his expression as it softened, the tightness dissipating from his own smile as he looked down at the little boy. “This is Neal,” he said. “Neal, this is Nurse French.”

The boy looked up at her, unsure for only a moment before he stuck his hand out. “Hi,” he said, and his eyes and smile were _so_ like Rummond’s that it plucked at her heartstrings.

Belle gave his hand a gentle shake. “Hello there, Neal. I’ve heard some wonderful things about you.”

His smile turned bashful, and he buried his face in his father’s shoulder.

“I don’t know what you could have heard.” Milah laughed, and Belle turned back to find the woman’s blue eyes boring into her. “His father certainly hasn’t been around enough to _know_ him.”

Rummond sat agape when Belle looked to him again. “Why don’t Neal and I see if we might find a piece of candy?” she suggested, hoping to take the boy aside. He didn’t need to be in the crossfire of whatever was about to take place. She could feel it coming in the tension that the woman had brought in with her.

Nodding, Rummond eased his son away from him. “Go with Nurse French for a while, hm? I believe she _might_ know where you can find a bit of chocolate candy.”

Neal didn’t look quite convinced, but he did as his father asked. Belle led him away, and though he didn’t take her hand when she held it out, he walked next to her. She took him over to the chair where she spent her night shifts. Waiting until he’d climbed into the seat, she searched her apron pocket for a piece of chocolate molasses candy, and squatted down in front of him to offer it.

He took it a little shyly, offering her a quiet, ‘Thank you,” in return.

“Chocolate is your favorite, is it?” she asked.

She distracted him with simple conversation, though she could hear reasonably well, herself, from their position. Her nosiness might not have been a virtue, strictly speaking, but it was a foible she’d learned to embrace.

“What is this? What are you doing here?” Rumond asked. He knew that it wasn’t something as simple as bringing his son in for a visit. She couldn’t possibly care enough to do that, and certainly not after this long.

Milah looked away quite pointedly. “He’s been talking about you. He brings you up every day, nearly.”

At that, a smile attempted to lift one corner of his mouth. He glanced over to where Neal sat with Belle. “Has he, then?”

She made a scoffing sound. “Well, you _are_ his father, after all.”

Rummond had been surprised when Neal recognized him at all, much less enough to run across a room to him. 

He regarded Milah warily. She’d left with no warning, apparently no compunction, stealing away his entire life in one fell swoop. She had taken with her even the chance for him to obtain some sense of closure regarding their marriage as a whole. And while he wasn’t in the least shocked that she left him, the devastation of his son being ripped away was still a wound that bled daily. As profoundly relieved as he was to see Neal, Milah showing up in this way only gave him the unmistakable feeling that there must be another shoe hanging somewhere over his head.

In his worry and irritation, Rummond asked her more frankly, “Why have you brought him?”

Milah raised a hand, looking down while she turned it, as if she couldn’t be bothered to keep her attention on him. She addressed the little black handbag that hung around her wrist. “Didn’t you want to see your son?”

“Yes, I want to see him.” He moved so that his legs hung over the side of the bunk, keeping his blankets over his lap. “I’ve wanted to see him for the last year, four months, six days- I can count out the _hours,_ if you like.”

“Oh, go pound sand down a rathole, Rummond,” she hissed, suddenly all narrowed eyes and bared teeth. “You don’t get to guilt me about _my_ decisions. Not when yours were _so_ spectacular.”

“I’m not guilting you. I-” The expression on her face made his stomach drop. He looked away from her, shaking his head. “You’ve kept him from me for this long. What’s changed?”

“As I said, he’s been talking about you.”

“And that’s made you travel a good eight, ten hours for a visit?”

She turned her face away again. “Killian isn’t fond of him.”

That was the foundation of it, then. Rummond stared up at her in confusion for a moment, before looking past her to the boy with an unkempt mop of hair. His son smiled at another piece of hard candy produced from Belle’s apron pocket. 

“How- how can he not like him?” He watched Neal work out the wrapper and pop the bit of sugar into his mouth as Milah went on. How could anyone not like that little boy?

“They don’t get along. He’s… _defiant_ toward Killian, won’t do as he’s told.”

“For Heaven’s sake, he’s six years old,” Rummond said quietly.

“He isn’t well-behaved enough for travel. He hasn’t had enough education to place in a boarding school. And anyway, Killian has decided that he isn’t the paternal sort.”

The way she chirped Jones’ name over and over grated at him. Her excuses were beginning to stack up. 

She was quiet, and Rummond shifted his eyes toward her before he turned his head to look. He knew the look of her reeling her emotions in, the way she tilted her head back to make herself appear aloof. He wondered if he only imagined the flicker of guilt he saw cross her hard features.

“Neal isn’t happy in the situation,” she said quickly.

By which she meant that _she_ wasn’t happy, or that her beau wasn’t happy. Rummond was quite sure that it had very little to do with Neal’s feelings on the matter. He narrowed his eyes up at her. 

He spoke very quietly, concentrating on forcing his voice even to hide the anger beneath it. “You would rather get rid of Neal, if it meant that you kept your- your-”

“Fiancé,” she supplied, and the word had little gloating in it. She said it matter-of-factly, for the most part, as if it were the most inevitable thing in the world.

Rummond looked to her hand, and sure enough, there was a ring on her finger with _some_ manner of stone set in it. “You would throw your son away for that?”

“I am not throwing him _away!”_ She made a scornful little sound, turning around to pace a couple of steps toward the aisle, and faced him again. “I’m turning him over to you. Custody _is_ yours by law, after all,” she said, appearing quite proud of herself for her point.

He shook his head. “What am I meant to do? He can’t stay here!” 

“That isn’t my problem anymore.” Milah grew awkward, and he wasn’t certain whether it was because she was ashamed of herself, or because patients and nurses alike were looking at them as their voices rose.

“Listen, please,” Rummond begged, stretching a hand toward her in supplication. “I’ll take him. I want him. Only, keep him until I can leave the hospital. It- it won’t be too much longer.” He didn’t know how much truth there was to his words, but he could work harder, make them true.

“I can’t.” She cut off his implorement with the curt denial. She looked to Neal, appearing to hesitate, but she turned away. “I’ve left a suitcase of his things at the desk,” she said, hurrying for the door.

“Milah,” Rummond said, reaching for his cane to brace him as he stood and started after her. “Milah, you can’t simply walk in and leave him. Milah!”

Neal looked up and frowned, slipping down from the chair and away from Belle when he found his mother leaving. “Mum?” he asked, and when he saw her heading toward the door they came in at, he ran after her, called out for her more loudly.

Belle reached for the boy when she realized what was happening, but he was just too far. Her hand slipped off his shoulder. She saw Nurse Mills step onto the ward, and she had a split second hope that the head nurse would have enough decency to keep a child from running out the door. Rummond was closer, though, and he grabbed the sleeve of his son’s coat as he ran by. Neal, caught unaware, swung around with the unbalanced halt in momentum, and slid to a stop kneeling on the tile. Rummond knelt with him.

“No…” he said gently. “You’re staying with me, son.”

Neal looked from his father, to the door, and back again. “But, Mum-”

“Your mum had to go.”

The little boy sank down to sit on his feet. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No!” Rummond told him a bit too vehemently, and Neal’s eyes widened. He curled his fingers around his son’s arms to turn him on the smooth tile, so that they faced. Smoothing Neal’s hair with both hands, he spoke more softly. “No, duckling, you did _nothing_ wrong. Mum only…” He struggled for an explanation that his son would accept.

As the hesitation grew longer, Belle stepped close, dropping to her knees next to him. “Your mum had to go away for a while,” she said, looking to Rummond. He nodded, and she went on. “She brought you back to your Papa because she knows he’ll make sure you’re safe and sound. It’s none of it your fault, darling, all right?”

Neal looked up at his father, who nodded to him, and then he nodded slowly to himself as he absorbed what he’d been told.

Rummond gave her a grateful look, and she gave him a smile in return.

“Come here,” Rummond murmured, and Neal reached up, wrapping his arms around his father’s neck. 

Belle hovered nearby as he took his cane and levered himself slowly to his feet, picking his son up with him. She worried that he might overbalance, but he seemed steadier than he had in quite a while. Once they’d gotten back to the bed, she left them to tend the most urgent of her chores. 

Neal leaned in for a too-close whisper. “I missed you.”

Rummond smiled, flinching a little at the gust of air sent into his ear. He’d not expected his son to be upset enough with his absence, small as Neal had been, to _miss_ him. “I missed you,” he said in return, giving the boy a squeeze. It brought a hiccup of a laugh out of him.

“Mum wanted me to call her friend ‘da.’ I wouldn’t. ” His little smile faltered, and he leaned, bumping his head against Rummond’s shoulder. “I made Mum angry.”

“I’m certain she wasn’t angry with you.” Rummond frowned, since Neal couldn’t see. He felt a fresh wave of loathing for this scoundrel that Milah had taken up with.

“That’s not why she went away?” Neal asked, seeking reassurance again.

“Nothing you did made her go away,” Rummond promised. Neal seemed to accept his answer. He kissed the top of his son’s head, gathering him close, and the boy curled into a ball against him.

Belle finished handing out medication to the few men who received something before lunch came ’round, and she headed toward Rummond and his son again. Nurse Mills had been walking the ward since she’d come in, and Belle was so frustrated with the skulking about that she thought terrible things at the woman. She wished that the head nurse would just _go away_ without causing trouble for once. 

“Still all right?” Belle asked as she approached Rummond’s space.

“More or less.” He covered the little ear that wasn’t pressed to his chest with his free hand. “He still isn’t quite sure what to think. Seems to blame himself.” Rummond frowned.

“That will pass,” she said. She could recall times when she’d blamed herself for her mother’s passing, despite barely remembering it. There had been quite a few talks with Mrs. Potts - and a handful with her father - before she’d moved past the feeling. “It’ll pass with the more he understands.”

Rummond nodded. “I hope so,” he said, and moved his hand again. 

After a moment, Neal raised his head. “I’m staying with you,” he said. He smiled lopsidedly, wiggling so that he could have a look at their immediate surroundings. “I’ll get a bed like yours?”

The dimples in the boy’s cheeks when he smiled made Belle itch to reach over and touch them. She pressed her lips together in amusement.

Rummond’s face dropped, though. “No. This is no place for you to stay.” He shook his head. “I’ll… have to figure something out.”

He couldn’t inflict his own father on Neal. His son didn’t deserve that. But what was the alternative? An orphanage? The workhouse? He pulled Neal closer again, tightening his arm around the boy. He wouldn’t subject his son to those places. “I’ll _have_ to send him to my father…” he murmured, and the thought made his insides hurt.

“I can take him,” Belle said immediately. Rummond’s expression when he voiced the idea had made the choice for her in an instant. She didn’t know a great deal about his father, but what she did know was enough to make her step in before Neal could be sent _there_.

Rummond looked quickly to her. “I can’t ask that of you.”

“You didn’t ask. I offered.” She crossed her arms, smiling as though the decision was made. “My father and I can foster him, until you’re released. However long it takes.”

“Belle… I don’t know how long that might be, and neither do you.”

“It doesn’t matter. As long as it takes.”

Rummond looked mutely up at her. Nearly anything would be better than the other options he had to choose from. But he knew Belle’s kindness, and if she was so willing to take his son in… Neal could be safe. Not merely surviving until he could leave the hospital, but _safe_.

“What would he do while you work?” Rummond asked.

“There’s my father at home, much of the time. But we have maids, a butler.”

Rummond’s eyebrows shot toward his hairline. “Maids?”

“My father isn’t the _most_ amiable creature in the world, but I can promise that he’ll be well looked after. Our cook half raised me, herself.” Belle smiled.

“You’ve staff? You- you work as a nurse.” He glanced down at Neal, who leaned toward Belle, reaching for her apron pocket. “Ask first,” he said quietly into his son’s ear.

“Please-thank-you?” Neal said, looking up at her.

Having run out of chocolate candy, she brought out a piece of taffy for him. “I work because I _want_ to.” She shook her head. “I know you’ve little reason to trust me-”

Rummond blinked at her, thinking of every time she’d helped him, cared for him, rescued him from Whale’s electric cure, and the trouble she still might find for that. “I have _every_ reason to trust you.”

She looked down at Neal, who looked back and forth at them while they talked, as if he watched a badminton match. “Would you like that?” she asked him.

Neal looked to his father, who nodded. “Would you be all right, staying with Nurse French until I’m out of hospital?”

“You’re coming, too?” Neal asked.

Rummond shook his head. “I have to stay here a while longer.”

“Then I’ll stay, too,” his son declared, returning his attention to untwisting the wrapper ends.

“No, you- you can’t stay here,” Rummond tried to clarify.

Neal looked up, his face crumpling as he understood. He dropped the candy into his father’s lap, his hands taking hold of handfuls of the front of Rummond’s gown. _“You’ll leave me!”_ he yelped.

Belle lifted a hand to her mouth, pressing the edges of her fingernails against her teeth at the little boy’s distress. She hadn’t expected such a reaction.

Rummond shook his head again, rubbing his son’s back. “I’m not leaving you-”

_“Please,”_ Neal pled, pulling at the fabric as if he could keep himself from being separated by clinging to it.

“I won’t leave you. I promise.” Rummond glanced up at Belle, and she saw just as much distress in his face as she could hear in his son’s voice. “I’ll never leave you. But this is a place for grown-ups to stay. You understand?”

Neal’s lower lip trembled, and no matter how long it had been, Rummond knew the choppy little breaths that heralded his son crying. Sure enough, tears welled up and spilled over before he could get another word out. He repositioned Neal so that he could hold him as he stood.

“Look,” he said gently, pointing across the ward. “All grown-ups, you see? You can come back to visit me, but only grown-ups can sleep here.”

His son looked around, sagging against him. “All grown-ups,” he echoed sadly. His breath hitched, but he seemed to be trying not to cry. 

Rummond wondered how a child Neal’s age had learned to choke back tears, and he cut off the thought before speculating on it angered him all over again.

Neal rubbed his face against his Papa’s shoulder, and he looked over at Belle. “I can come back?”

“Of course you can come back,” she said. She held a hand out to him, and he placed his tentatively in it. “I’ll make sure that you visit, myself.”

He nodded, and Rummond asked, “Does that mean you’ll stay with Nurse French?”

Rubbing his face into his father’s gown again, he gave a muffled, “Yes, Papa.”

“I think that’s a wise decision.” Rummond smiled. “She’s _very_ nice. And all that candy must come from somewhere, you know,” he said, trying to tease a smile out of his son.

Neal only sighed. He pulled his hand away from Belle, hiding his face.

“He’ll be all right,” Belle said, reaching out to give his back a little pat. “And he’ll be safe.”

Rummond’s smile had taken on a worried tinge at Neal’s reaction. He turned, sitting down on the edge of his bunk again. “I know. But the worrying that I’m leaving him…”

“Perhaps he’ll understand and trust that you aren’t when he has a visit?”

“Perhaps.” Rummond breathed a sigh of his own, tucking his head against his son’s. 

Belle watched them for a moment, wishing that she could help more. “I should go and make arrangements. You’ll be all right?”

“We’ll be fine.” He nodded. When she turned to go, he said, “Thank you, Belle.”

She sent a warm smile back over her shoulder. “It’s no trouble at all.”

It wasn’t _trouble,_ per se, and she was sure that Mrs. Potts would be amenable. Her father would come around, as well, though it might take him a bit more grumping. This simply wasn’t something she could turn away from in good conscience, though. Not as much as both Rummond and his son had been through. She couldn’t have allowed that to be compounded. She _was_ happy to take the boy in, and the rest of the household would be just as happy. She would damn well see to it.

Rummond closed his eyes, allowing himself a moment to do nothing save hold onto his son and be ecstatic that he had him in his arms. He felt the light around him change, and looked up, expecting Belle to have returned. 

Nurse Mills stood over them, a strangely neutral look on her face. “Poor child,” she cooed in a tone that set Rummond’s teeth on edge. “I couldn’t help overhearing.”

“I’m sure you couldn’t,” he muttered. Neal shifted to see the new person.

“It’s a tragedy, a child having no home to go to.” She reached over as if to touch Neal’s hair, and Rummond moved his hand to block her path. To his relief, she pulled back. 

“Keep your hands away from my boy,” he snapped. “He _has_ a place to go.”

“I thought I might offer room and board, but if that’s the way you feel-”

He locked eyes with her, hackles thoroughly raised. She could punish him later, but he wouldn’t allow her to touch his son. “That’s the way I feel.”

Her expression changed to something more predatory upon being rebuffed. “Ah, well. There are always the spikes.” She gave him one of her curl-lipped smirks. “How funny, though, _you_ demanding someone keep their hands off something of _yours_.”

“Nurse Mills?” came a voice from the front of the ward. Nurse Nolan stood halfway in the room. “Dr. Coughlan is asking for a few moments of your time.”

The head nurse gave him a scathing look down her nose before leaving, and for once, Rummond was glad that the meddling doctor was still providing annoyance. He kept his eyes open and remained watchful until Belle returned.

“All arranged.” She perched next to them again for a few minutes, while she could. “A car will be sent around in time for my end of shift, so that this one doesn’t have to ride my handlebars home,” she teased.

“Not now,” Neal said so firmly that it surprised laughter from Belle and Rummond, both.

Rummond swayed his son a little, side to side, and he felt the tension slip slowly out of Neal’s hands. The thought of letting go and sending him away, even with Belle, felt as if it might kill him.

“No, not just now,” Belle assured him. “I don’t go home until it’s quite dark out. Is that all right?”

Neal looked up, turning toward the windows, as though he verified that it was still very much daylight. He asked quietly, “I can come back tomorrow?”

Rummond looked to Belle, who watched the boy with a sympathetic smile on her face. “No…” he said, though it hurt to tell him so. He petted Neal’s hair, carefully working out a tangle as it caught his fingertips. “No, Nurse French’s day off work is tomorrow.”

“Sunday,” Belle said. “We’ll be back bright and early on Sunday morning. _Every_ Sunday,” she promised.


	51. More Than Enough Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt - _anonymousnerdgirl said: "Forgive me, but I had a very image of Mrs Potts getting Neal into a tub (not unlike Mrs Potts bathing Chip in BatB) while subtly (little pitchers have big ears after all) grilling Belle about Neal's situation. Could you please make this happen?"_

For the most part, Neal was a quiet one. Rummond had done his best to introduce his son to Jefferson when the Lieutenant returned from an appointment with Dr. Hopper. The attempt ended when Neal burrowed practically underneath his Papa, apparently deciding that he’d had quite enough strangers for one day. He was content to remain at his father’s side, only venturing away when he was in need of the washroom. 

Twice, Belle stopped to check on them and caught him in the midst of a catnap, his father watching over as though he might disappear. She found a new space for concern having opened up right next to the one she’d long held for Rummond.

Neal ate from his father’s lunch and dinner trays when they were brought out, and Belle was pleased to see than even Rummond ate more than usual. As time grew nearer for her to leave, she felt slivers of dread - not because the boy would be going with her, but for his and Rummond’s sake. She would be parting them again.

She gave them as many minutes together as she could. Finishing up her final tasks, clocking out, getting into her coat, chatting with Nurse Lind as she retrieved her purse. Her father’s car had already been sitting out front when she began her little delays. All told, she added near an hour of procrastination to the end of her day, until she could no longer put off fetching Neal away from his father.

“Rummond,” Belle said, approaching his bed, where he and Neal played with his deck of cards. They shuffled the cards between them more than playing a recognizable game. “I think it’s time we go…”

The boy’s smile dissolved, and he looked from her to his father, turning quickly toward the window. His shoulders drooped. “Got dark when I wasn’t looking,” he mumbled down at the blanket.

Neal dropped the cards he held, crawling across them to latch his arms around his Papa’s neck. Rummond gathered him closer.

“You’ll be back before you know it,” Rummond said, squeezing him as tightly as he dared.

“Bright and early Sunday morning,” Belle assured them again. “Only the day after tomorrow.”

Rummond stroked the back of his son’s hair, speaking softly to him. “You see? You’ll sleep tonight and tomorrow night, and I’ll see you again.”

“You’ll be here?” Neal asked, his words muffled. He leaned back so that he could see his Papa’s face. “You promise you’ll be here?”

“Right here. I promise.”

After clinging for another moment, Neal wriggled backward with his father holding him under the arms until his feet were on the floor.

Belle offered her hand, but he stuffed his own into his pockets. “Good night, Rummond,” she wished, giving him a reassuring smile.

“Good night, Papa,” Neal chimed in right after her. Neither of them missed the slightly sullen lilt to his voice.

Rummond reached out, running a hand over the back of his son’s hair one last time before they left. “Good night. Be good for Nurse French, hm?”

Neal nodded, and he reluctantly allowed Belle to coax him away. She kept him in her line of sight, ushering him ahead of her. Every few steps, he glanced back over his shoulder at his father, until they’d walked beyond the doors and the ward was closed off behind them.

Belle stepped behind the front desk to take the small, battered suitcase from beneath, and they headed out. Neal’s eyes widened at the sight of her father’s great black tourer, parked just at the foot of the hospital steps. 

The driver had taken the liberty of attaching her bicycle to the back of the automobile while he waited. He slid out from the front seat, and gave a curious look upon seeing her tag-along. 

“Miss Belle,” he greeted, touching his cap, and opened the door.

“Neal, this is our driver, Mr. Horatio. Horatio, this is Mr. Neal Gold.” She smiled down at their little guest. “He’ll be staying with us for a while.”

Horatio raised an eyebrow and his thin mustache gave a twitch, but he reached to help the boy in.

Neal shrank back, tucking himself behind Belle’s skirts. “All right, then,” she said, and gave the driver the suitcase before getting in, herself. She settled into the far corner of the seat before beckoning Neal along. “Come on, in you go.”

He stepped onto the running board, forced to remove his hands from his pockets. Belle leaned to take hold of his arm, to help as he climbed in, and Horatio closed the door once all limbs were inside.

The October air was crisp, particularly as they got onto the road and the driver sped up, and Neal’s summer coat wasn’t made for it. Belle offered shelter, placing her arm around him, and he huddled close for the remainder of the ride. The top was up, taking off a good bit of the wind’s brunt, but she did wish that Horatio would locate the car’s side curtains before winter truly took hold.

“Make sure that his things make it to the guest room nearest mine, please?” Belle asked when the driver let them out at the front of the house. 

Horatio nodded, closing the half door after them. He waited until he was certain that they were safely out of his path before he pulled away, taking the car back to the motor house that had been erected at the back of the estate.

One of the maids, waiting for them in the entry, took Belle’s coat and purse. Her offer to take Neal’s coat was met with a slow couple of steps away, edging around to hide at Belle’s other side. The maid pinched her lips together in an effort to hide her amusement.

“Babette, would you happen to know where my father is?” Belle reached down to place a comforting hand at the boy’s back.

“No, ma’am. He was in the study earlier, but gone again when I went to remind him of tea,” the maid said, pursued by the softened v’s and z’s of a French accent.

“All right. I’ll find him.”

Neal stayed at the hem of her skirt as she searched. The sitting room and parlor were empty, as was the study, and the kitchen held only staff. “We’ll find him; I know he’s about _somewhere_. He only just returned on Wednesday, and he’s such a homebody after business trips…”

Neal didn’t volunteer another side to the conversation, trailing after her like a shy puppy. She circled back to her father’s study and took him inside.

“What sort of things do you like to do?” she asked, and he simply shrugged. “What sort of toys to you like? Do you like trains? Or animals?”

He nodded, but there was no excitement to the gesture. Belle sighed, crossing to the desk and pulling the big leather chair out from under it. She turned to Neal and caught him before he could get away, picking him up and placing him in the seat, and squatted next to him.

“Do you remember what you’ve been doing in school?” she asked, resting her hands on the chair arm. He gave her a blank look that slowly turned into a little frown, and she thought she understood. “Neal, darling, have you _been_ to school?”

Neal tilted his head a bit, giving it a shake.

“Can you read? Or write?”

His face lit up with understanding. “Papa taught me to write my name!”

“Such a clever boy you are.” Belle smiled, reaching up to ruffle his hair. Opening the drawer in front of him, she took out paper and sorted something to write with from the clutter. She gave him a pencil in a silver holder, at some point separated from its chatelaine.

“Belle!” her father called, sounding as if he were at the other end of the hallway.

“In the study,” she called back. “Here, show me how you write your name?”

“Lumiere tells me you’ve come home with some tattered child in tow,” Maurice said as he rounded the doorframe, his face drawn in obvious disapproval. “I was certain he’d been mistaken.”

“Papa,” Belle said, clearing her throat to caution him. She stood, looking at her watch. They’d been home all of ten minutes, and the entire house knew. Of course they did.

Neal looked up at her, smiling for the first time since they’d left the ward. “You call yours ‘Papa,’ too.”

She stepped away, meeting her father near the door. “His name is Neal. He’s the son of a patient, and he needed a place to stay,” she explained quietly. “There was nowhere else, so I said we could take him in.”

“A stranger’s child, Belle!”

“Shh.” She bounced a hand in front of her by way of asking him to lower his voice. “Not a stranger’s. A patient’s.”

He looked around her, eyeing the little boy. “How old is he?”

“Six years old.” She glanced back to where Neal knelt up over the desk, concentrating quite hard.

“Bit small for six.”

 _“Father,”_ Belle said, and at the seldom-used address, he looked properly chastened.

“Is this patient the one who caused you to be called away from your engagement party?”

“Well, I suppose…”

Maurice loured, shaking his head. “I’m not sure that this is a wise idea, my girl. Taking in someone else’s child isn’t a thing to be lightly done.”

“And I’m not doing it lightly.” Belle felt a tug at her apron, and she looked down to find Neal holding a piece of paper out to her.

She crouched, getting down on his level again. “Why, Neal Bailey Gold, you have a lovely name,” she told him, reading the shakily-lettered print.

“Thank you,” he murmured, turning a soft shade of red in his cheeks.

“Why don’t you go and draw something for your Papa? Something sweet, to cheer him up?”

Beaming at the idea, Neal ran back to the desk. Belle watched as he sorted out stabilizing the chair so that he could climb up.

“He had _nowhere_ else to go, Papa,” she said, rising to face her father again. “Nowhere with people who would be kind to him.”

“Belle, dearest, you don’t want to get mixed up with a man like that. He’s…”

“What? He’s what?” Belle asked wearily. He’d had opinions of this sort since she began working at Firefly Hill. They always hinged on the mental condition of the men, and she’d grown so tired of it. She particularly didn’t want to have to hear it in this case. 

“Unstable,” he said, leaning closer and speaking under his breath, as if he used some uncouth word. “You never know what they’ll do. What if he comes here some night looking for the boy? What would you do then?”

“I would invite him in so that he could see his son,” she replied simply, knowing the reaction her remark would garner.

Her father looked at her as if _she_ were mad, now. “Belle!”

“He isn’t _dangerous,_ Papa,” she said, unrelenting, lowering her voice further. “He’s in a difficult place. He’s injured - injured in a war that he fought in for _us_. He deserves the best care that I- that- that the _hospital_ can give him. And if taking in the child that has been kept from him since he came home from that war will give him peace of mind and help him to recover, then I’ll not be stopped from doing it.”

Maurice gave her a look that was an uncomfortable combination of obstinance and scolded. 

She squared her shoulders and pulled all her own stubbornness around her that she could muster. “Aside from everything else, that little boy deserves all the kindness we can give him,” she whispered, fixing her father with a fierce look.

“I…” Maurice looked from his daughter to his desk, where the boy sat in absolute concentration, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he drew. “I suppose it can’t hurt, keeping him on a trial run. It isn’t as if we haven’t room to spare.”

Belle raised her hands to place them on his shoulders, pulling herself high onto her tiptoes to plant a kiss on her father’s cheek. “Thank you.”

He shook his head, a begrudging smile crossing his face. “At least you’re home in time for dinner,” he said, turning to leave the study.

She sighed happily, clapping her hands together. She knew he’d give in. It only took a sensible argument and a firm place to dig in her heels.

“Nurse French?” Neal asked from behind her. 

She went to the desk, leaning to rest her arms on it next to him. “You can call me ‘Belle,’ you know. Unless you wish me to call you Mr. Gold.”

Neal giggled, shaking his head, and tried it out. “Nurse Belle?” he asked, his voice growing softer, and he turned suddenly shy again.

“What is it?”

He looked up at her through his eyelashes, fidgeting with the corner of his coat in a way _so_ like his father. After a moment, he admitted, “I’m hungry…”

“I believe, if you go to the kitchen, Mrs. Potts mentioned something this morning about making fruit tarts tonight. I would wager they’re still warm.”

Neal’s eyes lit up, and she could virtually see his mouth water. “To the right and all the way down to the end of the hall,” she said, pointing in the direction he should go. “Do you think you can go by yourself? And I’ll come to find you in a few minutes?”

He hesitated, but eventually gave her a nod. Leaning back, he let himself slip down from the chair, and he trotted across the room and out the door.

Belle straightened the desk a bit, gathering the scattered papers. She looked at the drawing he’d left behind, half done. There were two figures at the center, one much larger than the other, and she recognized a hospital gown on the taller one. The small figure seemed to be reaching up to hold hands. Far to one side, there was another, unfinished figure. This one wore a dress and a frown, and Belle understood easily. She resisted the petty urge to take an eraser to the figure at the edge of the paper, and left it there for him to finish later.

From the hallway, Belle could hear Mrs. Potts already fussing over their little visitor. _Good,_ she thought. It would give her time to peek into that suitcase.

She went upstairs, passing her own bedroom and entering the one a door down from it. It was just a hair smaller than hers - plenty big enough for Neal to make himself comfortable in - and freshly made up. The suitcase that his mother had left lay at the foot of the bed. Belle tripped the buttons that released the latches, and opened it.

It was mostly empty space. There were a couple of shirts, one missing two buttons, a jacket that appeared too small, a pair of trousers in similar repair to the ones he wore, and a pair of shoes scuffed more severely than those on his feet. She sifted through it once more in disbelief.

“This is all there is?” she muttered to herself with a frown. No wonder it had been so light. 

She thought again of the disparate conditions between his clothing and his mother’s, but did her best to put it out of her mind as she folded the boy’s few belongings and put them back into the suitcase a bit violently, slamming it shut. She didn’t want to be angry when she saw Neal again, being reasonably certain he’d seen more than enough angry faces.

Belle left the guest room - now Neal’s room - leaving the door open in welcome. She took a deep breath as she began descending the stairs, pushing away her frustration. She quickly decided that she wouldn’t tell Rummond what, precisely, was contained in the suitcase. There was no way to help the fact of it, and it would only upset him. She could dip into the house account and buy the child some proper clothing. If her father took issue with that, then she would simply use some of her own savings. He _had_ to have some things of his own. They would make do for tonight, and tomorrow, they would look into making sure of just that.

There were some of her childhood things in the attic - toys, furniture, and whatnot. Surely some of that could do for him. She would ask the butler to arrange bringing some of it down in the morning, while they were out.

She met Mrs. Potts at the landing, on her way up with a broad smile on her face and Neal’s hand in hers. He had something that looked suspiciously like strawberry jam around his mouth.

“She does make excellent tarts, doesn’t she?” Belle asked. He nodded, his hair flopping cheerfully.

“Doesn’t talk much, does he?” Mrs. Potts observed.

Belle grinned down at him, and he gave her a sticky smile in return. “Mm. He isn’t a chatterbox, no.” 

“Well, we’re on our way to give the tot a much needed b-a-t-h,” the cook spelled out. “I think it would go more smoothly, if you were to come along.” She had a look that meant her invitation was not a mere suggestion.

Belle knew what the older woman was at. Mrs. Potts would need to be aware of the boy’s situation, though, she supposed.

Mrs. Potts got him into the guest room and scuttled him right through into the washroom before letting go of his hand. Once Belle was in, she closed the door.

Neal immediately took on a hunted expression. “I have to take a bath?” he asked forlornly, giving Belle a look that made her feel a bit as if she’d betrayed him.

Before she could answer, she was was saved by Mrs. Potts. “I do believe it would be for the best, lad. We’ll have to wash you or begin planting potatoes.

He cracked a smile, and he loosened his limbs to allow his coat to be removed.

Belle stoppered the tub and began running water into it as Mrs. Potts set about the chore of undressing a reluctant boy. Beneath his too-snug waistcoat, his shirt missed a button right in the middle. Mrs. Potts clucked her tongue, holding back a thoroughly disgusted look as she dropped article after article of clothing into a pile next to the hamper. 

“I’ll have Babette wash and mend them. Might do as play clothes,” she said doubtfully.

“Play clothes?” Neal asked, hopping a little as he was relieved of one of his socks. 

“To play outdoors in,” Belle said, perching herself on the closed toilet. “You can play in the back garden.”

Neal looked absolutely enraptured by the idea. The cook poked his belly above his navel, and he squawked a laugh that bounced off the tile. 

“In you go,” Mrs. Potts said, picking him up and setting him into the water to begin soaking him. She turned to take down an amber bottle of shampoo and a nail brush from the cabinet next to the sink, and fetched a towel and cloth from the linen cabinet. “Boy has dirt in crevices I didn’t know children had.”

She knelt next to the bathtub and set about washing the boy’s hair, tipping him back under the faucet to wet it. “All right…” She glanced over her shoulder at Belle. “Go on. And keep in mind, little pitchers have big ears.”

Mrs. Potts wanted the story. Belle leaned her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, choosing her words carefully. “His mother brought him by the hospital this afternoon. Him and his suitcase. She didn’t stay long.”

The cook looked back at her again, frowning, and by the time she looked to Neal again, her expression had turned sympathetic. “He remarked on going back to visit his _Papa_ Sunday morning,” she said, a question veiled in her tone.

“The pilot who was having a bad time the night of the engagement party? She turned custody over to him. It was quite the surprise.” Belle worried her lower lip with her teeth when Neal was sat up again. 

Mrs. Potts poured shampoo into her palm, handing the bottle to Belle to put safely away. “A surprise!” she said. “Was your Papa surprised to see you?”

Neal, knowing to keep his eyes closed with soap on its way, nodded. He blew a puff of air through the water dripping down his face.

When she’d started a good lather at the top of his head, Mrs. Potts began working it through. Belle wrinkled her nose along with Neal’s full-face cringe, remembering the feeling of Mrs. Potts’ fingernails on her scalp.

“How surprised are we talking?” she asked Belle over her shoulder, now that the boy was distracted by the torture of hair washing. 

“Nearly a year and a half surprised. She… moved away by surprise with a… _friend,_ not long after he was shipped home.” Rummond hadn’t told her, really, but he’d said enough here and there that she was able to put together the timing of it, and she understood the bare bones of what had happened.

Mrs. Potts grumbled under her breath. Belle made out the syllables of, “irresponsible,” and “some people.”

“There was a decision to be made between the friend and our guest, and it resulted in him _being_ our guest.” Belle was sure that her euphemisms were a bit awkward, but they got the point across.

“Somehow I suspect all of us on this side of that decision are the winners,” Mrs. Potts said. She eased Neal back under the faucet again. “About that suitcase?”

Belle waited until Mrs. Potts looked to her again, and she shook her head. “Same or worse,” she said, nodding toward the little pile by the hamper.

“Well. No matter.” The cook ruffled Neal’s hair in the running water, making sure the soap was out before she helped him sit up again. “It’s a lovely excuse to get this dear little thing some new clothes.”

“I don’t need anything,” he said, raising his hands to wipe water and bubbles away from his face, so that he could open his eyes, and he assured them again, “I don’t need anything.”

Belle caught the anxious expression on his face, and she exchanged a look with Mrs. Potts. She knelt down beside the tub, next to the heavier woman. “There are a few things your mum forgot to bring along,” she said. “It’s all right. It’ll be no trouble at all.”

Neal quieted, looking away. He swished his hand under the water, moving the small clusters of bubbles that still survived on the surface.

“Say, do you think you could hand me the soap?” Mrs. Potts asked, pointing to the soap dish that hooked over the other side of the bathtub. “I’m not sure I can reach.”

Neal reached over for the unused bar, and as soon he got it into his hands, it slipped out. He fumbled to catch it, pinning it to his chest for a half second, and it popped out from under his fingers again. It startled a hiccup of a laugh out of him. He sobered quickly, though, looking up at them.

Mrs. Potts took his face between her thumb and curled index finger, giving his chin a gentle shake, and he giggled. “Nothing wrong with laughter, child. I expect to hear more of it around the house.” She moved to catch the soap as it skidded toward the drain plug. “Now, let’s see about getting some of that dirt off you and into the bath, hmm?”

He was in brighter spirits by the time they got him out. Mrs. Potts draped a towel over his head, and she rubbed the water from his hair before bundling him up in the towel completely, lifting him to stand on the toilet lid so that she could comb him free of tangles.

“Goodness, but we need a bit of a trim,” she tutted. Properly washed and combed, his mass of dark brown waves seemed a good inch longer than before she’d gotten him into the tub. 

Neal shivered, and she set his feet on the floor again. “Show the poor dear where the vent in the bedroom is,” Mrs. Potts said. “Let him warm himself, and I’ll go and see what I can find to put on him. Chip’s got some outgrown things, I know.”

Mrs. Potts bustled away with the boy’s dirty clothes, and Belle guided him over to the furnace vent between the nightstand and the wardrobe. “You’ll warm up in no time,” she said, giving him a smile as she rubbed the towel against his arms.

“Who’s Chip?” he asked after a few moments, as the hot air soothed his shivers. 

“Mrs. Potts’ grandson, Christopher,” Belle explained. “He’s away just now, but he’ll be back soon.”

Chip was around off and on. His mother would pop in and take him for a few days or weeks at a go, before dropping him off with his grandmother again for some unprescribed length of time. Neal didn’t need to know that, though - not under the circumstances. 

“I think you’ll like him. He’s a few years older than you are, but he’s a good boy.” Well, he was once he’d been back for a day or two. Chip tended to act out a little after his mother left. Belle wondered if perhaps the boys would be good for one another… 

“Look at what I found,” Mrs. Potts said, returning with an armful of various clothing. “I believe these will fit just fine, for now.”

She took the suitcase and slid it under the bed, laying a pair of red-striped pajamas out in its place, and sorted the rest in the order she meant to put them on Neal. “Dinner won’t be much longer. Belle, why don’t you go and change from your work things? I’ll take care of our boy, here.”

Belle looked to Neal, but he’d drifted over to Mrs. Potts’ side in curiosity. “I’ll see you at dinner,” she said, and he smiled up at her just before the cook took away his towel.

She usually had a short rest before dinner - when she arrived home early enough for one. There would be no time for it this evening, though. She thought it might just be a night for turning in early. 

Belle sorted out the wrappers from her apron pocket, dropping the empty slips of paraffin paper into the small rubbish bin next to her vanity. She left the candy by her box of hairpins, and set aside her handkerchiefs for the wash. Her uniform dress was fresh enough to be worn again, but her apron went into the hamper. She took a clean one down from her wardrobe shelf, placing it on the chair with her dress, and left her shoes underneath. The less she had to run around on work mornings, the better.

The humidity in the washroom had frayed her hair a little, but it was repaired well enough with dampened hands smoothing it back. She got into a blouse and skirt, and took out a pair of shoes she could slip on, deciding that she had no patience for laces.

Carrying her shoes, she went to look in on the guest room. Mrs. Potts had already taken Neal downstairs. Belle shook her head, hurrying down in her stocking feet. Her father was _always_ early to the table, and she didn’t want him attempting to make conversation with Neal until they’d had a chance to have a conversation about the boy’s situation in private. Her father didn’t catch on to subtleties the way Mrs. Potts did.

She wondered what Rummond was doing. There was a pinching worry at the back of her mind about how he would fare tonight, getting his son back and having him spirited away again in a matter of hours. They would see one another again on Sunday, but that didn’t help a great deal _right now_.

Father and son both had been starved of affection; it was easy enough for her to see. Rummond had only learned to hide it better than Neal could. She’d seen how much Neal loved his Papa, clinging to him and leaning against him, taking in every word his father said. She hoped that Rummond, with all of his doubts about himself, had been able to see it, as well. 

Belle held onto the curl at the end of the banister to put her shoes on, and walked around to the dining room. Her father and Neal sat quietly, not quite looking at one another. She shook her head, taking her usual seat, glad that Mrs. Potts had seated Neal directly across from her. He had on a fine little suit - one she’d seen Mrs. Potts take Chip to church in. It was just a tad big, but it would be good for tonight and tomorrow.

“What have we for dinner?” she asked, attempting to pull small talk from them, at the very least.

“Chicken,” her father said. He appeared in a fine enough mood.

She looked to Neal, catching his eye. “Do you like chicken?”

He nodded readily, beaming across the table at her.

Maurice smiled over at the boy as their plates were brought out and placed in front of them. “Belle has told me a smidge about your father,” he began, taking his napkin and unfolding it.

“Papa, mm-mm,” Belle said, but he either didn’t hear her, or barrelled ahead, anyway. 

“What about your mother? What does she do?”

Neal’s cheerful expression fell away, and he took his spoon from the setting, bringing it down to fiddle with it. 

Belle cleared her throat, removing her napkin from her lap with more force that might strictly have been necessary.

Her father caught on, then, to his credit. “Ah,” he said, turning his attention to his roast chicken. “I only meant to make pleasant conversation.”

She pushed her chair back and got up, taking her plate and walking around to Neal’s place. When she sat down next to him, a maid took the setting from her place and transferred them over.

Dinner progressed quickly, if quietly, from there. Neal had a good appetite, once Belle distracted him from his thoughts. _That_ was something of a relief. She didn’t know what she’d have done if he had to be coaxed into eating, as well.

Warm and full of dinner, by the time dessert had disappeared, his head was bobbing. 

Mrs. Potts, periodically peering around the doorway to look in on them this evening, came in when she saw the little boy’s energy flagging. She took his hand, intent on getting him upstairs before he went to sleep right there at the dining table. He went obediently, though his feet dragged.

Belle excused herself to go along. “Here,” she said, leaning to take him before they got to the stairs. She picked him up, setting him on her hip, and he practically went limp against her shoulder. “Poor love,” she whispered, rubbing his back as they went up. “Such a long day you’ve had.”

He half woke as Mrs. Potts got him into the waiting pajamas. She got him snuggled down in the middle of the big bed, quilt pulled up around him, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head - a habit left over from the days when her grandson wanted goodnight kisses.

Belle stayed after Mrs. Potts went on to oversee dishwashing efforts. She sat on the side of the bed, to talk to him until he fell asleep. “How do you feel?” she asked.

“Okay,” he replied softly.

“You miss your Papa?”

He nodded, ducking his mouth beneath the edge of the covers.

“You’ll see him again soon, darling,” she promised, reminding him, “Sunday morning.”

Neal nodded again. “Sunday morning,” he echoed, his speech slowing as he grew drowsier.

“Mrs. Potts has deemed that you and I _both_ are in need of a new suit of clothes,” she said, drawing the quilt higher around his shoulder as he squirmed around to turn onto his side. She hoped to make him more comfortable with the idea. “Would you mind terribly going?”

Neal took a deep, sleepy breath, and she felt him curl one of his legs up closer. “Okay,” he said, nodding just enough that she could decipher that it was a nod.

“We’ll have a lovely day. I’ll make sure of it.” Belle smiled, brushing his hair out of his eyes. 

He pulled a hand from beneath the covers, putting his thumb in his mouth.

Children stopped sucking on their fingers much younger than Neal was, didn’t they? Her bits of exposure to Dr. Hopper’s theories made her wonder how children responded to stress and the sorts of neglect that Neal had surely been through. She frowned, squashing down the urge to gather the little boy up for a hug.

Mrs. Potts would try to break that habit, but Belle couldn’t bring herself to say a thing to him about it. If it comforted him, then let him. She stroked his hair, watching as his eyes drifted shut, and she hoped that his sleep would be peaceful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visual aids:  
> [Maurice’s 1913 Sunbeam Tourer](http://40.media.tumblr.com/ff7b7758a24142beeb7cc2547dcd3fb2/tumblr_nxs5rayrA81sn4l8ho1_1280.jpg).


	52. The Evidence of Things Not Seen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt - _anonymousnerdgirl said: "Can I prompt Neal sending his father drawings every day via Belle? Maybe Belle suggesting that Neal draw something to cheer his papa up? And maybe Belle and Mrs Potts buying him some decent clothing? Neal needs some fluff in his life." (Also, tinuviel-undomiel suggested that Belle have a dream, too… ;) )_

As the trip was a bit of an impromptu thing, Mrs. Potts had blessedly hounded Horatio into hunting down the tourer’s side curtains from what they politely called the motor house’s ‘storage’ (in fact a semi-dangerous stacking of boxes and odds-and-ends in front of a set of shelves installed at the far back of the building’s interior). The few minutes’ drive from the hospital to the house was one thing, but a trek into Knightsbridge was quite another.

Having the curtains on meant that they didn’t have to suffer the wind, but it was still chilly enough for Neal to seek warmth at Belle’s side. The boy was remarkably well behaved - quiet and mostly still, hands stuffed into his coat pockets. He’d only once asked where they were going, the question posed bashfully. She made a point of answering every question that he gave her kindly and without putting him off, and she’d noticed Mrs. Potts doing much the same. She hoped to at some point get him out of the fear of asking them.

It had been a good while since Belle had been out to the shops. There was no time at all for it during her work days, and her day off was most often preferably spent restoring the fortitude for another week. She’d gone out for her engagement party dress, then much later for the book that Rummond asked her to find, and that had been her last trip into the city.

Their first destination was the barber shop. Neal, decidedly unenthusiastic about this development, allowed himself to be lifted into the chair and covered with a cape, but kept his eyes screwed tightly shut for the entire ordeal.

“Only a trim,” Belle instructed the barber taking care of him. “It only needs a bit of neatening.”

She watched closely, to the mild irritation of the gathered men, making sure that Neal’s sweet little mop didn’t disappear as a result of someone ‘knowing better’ about the current style.

They walked down to the department store from there, leaving Horatio parked with a newspaper and a handkerchief of biscuits he thought he’d filched without Mrs. Potts knowing. Neal seemed a bit more cheerful once they left the barber, looking around them with interest, but the moment they stepped into Harrods, he froze.

Belle found almost immediately that he was no longer beside her, and she went back. She leaned down, ignoring the people who walked around them on a continual flow in, and asked, “Neal, are you all right?”

He nodded, glancing up at Mrs. Potts where she waited for them a short way ahead. Belle placed her hand on his back, and his attention turned to her.

“It’s _big,”_ he whispered, and Belle realized that it wasn’t Mrs. Potts he was looking at, but the space behind her.

“It is big,” she agreed. “But perhaps if we stay close together, it won’t seem overwhelming?”

Neal nodded again, and she offered her hand for him to hold. He ducked his head, cramming his hands as deeply into his pockets as he could.

Belle smiled and gave his back a gentle pat. “That’s all right.”

She kept a closer eye on him as they walked through and up to the first floor. They went by the stairs, as Mrs. Potts simply wasn’t comfortable with the moving staircase, and Neal didn’t appear too taken with it, himself. He stuck so close to Belle that she felt the toes of his shoes bump the heels of hers once or twice. 

They went through the ladies’ department first, and Mrs. Potts was on point. Belle had somewhat hoped to go straight to the boys’ clothing. No such luck.

“You’re in need of a couple of new winter outfits,” the cook said, touching sleeves and inspecting hem stitching as she went. “Skirts. And blouses to go along. You could use a new petticoat or t- don’t give me that look. I’ve seen the condition of them when they come through the wash. The mending on the blue one…” She gave a series of tongue clucks in disapproval. “Perhaps a pair of new shoes, when we get to that department.”

“I don’t need a new petticoat. It isn’t as if they’re _seen,”_ Belle attempted to put her off.

It wasn’t much use arguing. She met with Mrs. Potts’ expectant look, and began to peruse for things she thought she would enjoy wearing.

When they neared the formal wear, Neal drifted from her side. Belle watched as he went over to a mannequin that stood on a pedestal near the middle of the room. He leaned near the evening gown on display. It was bright red, glistening with a solid layer of beads and sequins, and he looked closely at the pattern of them. Neal walked a circle around it, and she watched to see if he touched. _She_ was enticed to touch it. But he didn’t. His hands never left his pockets.

Curious about this little peculiarity she’d grown to notice, Belle stepped over to him while Mrs. Potts sorted through a display of stockings.

“Isn’t it pretty?” she said.

He nodded without taking his eyes off it. “My mum has a purple dress that sparkles.”

Belle sat down on the edge of the pedestal, near where he’d stopped. He didn’t frown, exactly, but there was something sad in his expression. She reached out, catching a few strands of the long fringe of beads that fell from the dress’ hem, and held it closer to him in invitation. He took a small step back.

She let the beads slip from her palm. “Why do you keep your hands in your pockets?”

“I’m not s’posed to touch anything. Mum says.”

“Why not?” As soon as she said it, she wasn’t certain she wanted an explanation.

“My fingers are dirty,” he murmured, looking down at the fringe. “I smudge everything up.”

Belle marshaled away a frown, and she shook her head. “You can touch things. You needn’t keep your hands hidden.”

Neal gave her a doubtful look. She offered the beads again, and after a moment, he pulled a hand from one pocket to reach hesitantly out. He smiled as the fringe flowed through his fingers. 

“Here we are,” Mrs. Potts said, coming over with a pair each of black and white stockings, and an attendant behind her to carry the rest of Belle’s choices. She shook the stockings at the articles of clothing that draped carefully over the attendant’s arm. “Why don’t you go and try these on? They may need a bit of alteration.”

“I don’t want to try anything on,” Belle said. “I’m sure they’re fine.”

Neal looked up at her. “Does that mean I don’t have to try mine on?” he asked hopefully.

Belle sighed, knowing good and well that she was caught between Scylla and Charybdis before Mrs. Potts so much as spoke another word.

“You’ll want to set a good example for the boy, hm?” Mrs. Potts fixed her with a look she’d given since Belle was a child - a steady smile beneath a stubborn stare. 

That particular look made her feel somewhere around Neal’s age. “On the other hand, one never knows how something might fit, when one buys a garment already made,” she said for his benefit, crossing to the fitting rooms.

The attendant, a reedy woman with a pleasant smile, followed. “I can assist, if needed,” she offered as she placed the blouses and skirts that Belle had chosen inside.

“No, thank you. I’ll be fine,” Belle assured her. She stepped in, pulling the heavy curtain closed.

In the end, she was glad to have tried them, as it meant avoiding an ‘I told you so’ from Mrs. Potts over a skirt that was too loose in the waist. After providing instructions and an address for delivery, they continued on to the boys’ section of the children’s department.

A young gentleman of an attendant took quick measurements to gauge Neal’s size, and proceeded to gather the things that Mrs. Potts indicated as she poked her way around the displays. She pointed out all of the everyday basics that a boy would need, as well as what he would require through the winter. Studiously ignoring the knowing look that Mrs. Potts gave her, Belle picked up a few things to add - a little blue waistcoat that would do for special occasions, a woolen chenille scarf, and a baker boy cap made of dove gray, corded velveteen. The scarf and cap felt particularly lovely under her fingertips, and she wanted them for him.

Neal seemed… reluctant. The more Mrs. Potts held this shirt or that pair of trousers up to him to imagine how they might look, the more reluctant he became. He had a look about him that Belle had long ago come to recognize in Chip - as if he’d done something wrong and expected a dressing down for it.

While Mrs. Potts took care of the pajama situation, Belle guided Neal over to the seats near the fitting rooms. He climbed into the chair next to her and watched as the cook decided between fabric designs.

“Shopping is tiring for you, too, is it?” Belle asked, reaching over to pat his leg. He looked up at her, then away again. “You can tell me anytime something is wrong, you know. Anytime you might be upset or feel badly about anything.”

Neal played with one of the brass buttons on his borrowed coat, turning it to make it catch the lights. “I don’t need all those things,” he said, looking over at the attendant who hovered patiently behind Mrs. Potts, holding her intended purchases.

“Do you remember how we talked about your mum forgetting some things in your suitcase? That’s what we’re here for,” Belle explained. “Your papa will be in the hospital for a bit longer, so you’ll need clothes to last until he gets out.”

The corners of Neal’s mouth turned down. “It’s trouble.”

She shook her head. “Trouble?”

“It’s too much to do. It’s trouble,” he said again, trying to make her understand.

“It isn’t trouble,” Belle told him right away when she caught on. Someone had made him feel like a burden, and she was fairly certain whose hair it was that she had the impulse to pull out by the roots for it. “Neal?” she said, and waited until he looked up at her. “Darling, you are no trouble at all.”

His frown slowly relaxed, and she leaned to press a kiss to the top of his head, petting his hair over it as she told him again, “You’re no trouble at all.”

Mrs. Potts came over, and Belle grinned to see all three pair of pajamas the woman had been considering in the attendant’s arms. She looked at one of them and then the other. “Is something wrong?”

Belle shook her head. “I think we’re all right for now. Are we?” she asked, looking to Neal. 

He heaved a little sigh, but he nodded.

“Let’s go and see if you’ve grown since we started, shall we?” Mrs. Potts said, and he slid himself down until his feet touched the floor.

Belle sat with her thoughts while Mrs. Potts and Neal worked their way through the pile of small clothing, every few minutes handing one article out with a yea or nay, and taking another back in. The attendant hurried back to the displays a couple of times to fetch something an increment smaller or larger. Only the socks and underthings escaped being verified for fit.

She thought of Rummond, trying her best to make peace with the fact that there had been no better place for his son to live than with the boy’s mother while he was in hospital. She wondered how things might have been different, had he not been taken away from his father. Would he have been able to care properly for his son, with his injury weighing him down? Could it have been worse for Neal and Rummond both? There were scenarios she didn’t want to entertain _at all,_ that could very well have happened in a slightly different situation.

The sheer love she’d seen in Rummond when he talked about Neal, and the way it had positively radiated from him when he had his son in his arms again - Belle felt a measure of relief that things had turned out as well as they had. He already took blame on his shoulders for so much. He would never have forgiven himself, if something had happened to his son on his watch.

In spite of her attempts to tamp it down, she couldn’t help but feel the fond warmth that she held for Rummond growing so exponentially that she sometimes thought it _must_ beam right from her face. She had always enjoyed her work, even in the darkness that had recently passed over the world, but she’d never so happily anticipated going back to the hospital as she had since he was placed in her responsibility. It was an odd feeling, and she felt on some cusp of being able to put a finger on _why_ it was odd.

Neal came out, bustled before Mrs. Potts with a very pink face, looking like a grumpy little bird with its feathers ruffled. He hurried over to Belle as she stood, tucking himself behind her.

“I believe all he’s lacking in are shoes, now,” Mrs. Potts said. “At least we’ll get to sit while they fit those for themselves.”

Belle headed for the shoe department with Neal, while Mrs. Potts arranged their credit and delivery. She paused by a set of shelves filled with purses. She’d been managing fine without one, since getting rid of the one Donat gifted to her, but Belle had to admit that she’d become a bit dependent on the convenience. She saw all sorts of lovely examples, but she searched for one appropriate for her needs. There were dozens of evening purses iced with glimmering beads and dripping with fringe, fully sterling silver handbags with hinges and engravings along the sides, oiled leather pouches with heavy tooling. She only wanted something _useful._ A purse to carry to work didn’t need to be flash.

She felt a tug at her skirt, and looked to find that Neal held onto it. He appeared tired, and more than ready to be done with the store. Belle reached down, running her hand over the back of his hair, and he looked up. “Just a few more stops,” she told him, “and we can go back home.”

“How many?” he asked.

“Let’s see… Not including the shoe lounge, I’m thinking two. And you might enjoy them far more than a department store.”

“You’ve plans you haven’t let me in on, then,” Mrs. Potts said, catching up with them.

“They’re nearby. One just down the street, and the other across.” Belle smiled, finding a blue purse of just about the right size, embroidered with red roses. There was a similar one next to it, decorated with stitched carnations on a red background. She took them both down, showing them to Neal. “Which one? Can you help me decide?”

He reached up, and she was quietly delighted to see him run his fingers over the embroidery. “The blue one?”

“Yes, I think the blue one would go along with my uniform nicely. Thank you,” she said, and he smiled up at her.

They went to join Mrs. Potts, where she flapped a hand at the attendant hovering over her. “My shoes are just fine,” she fussed. “It’s the children who need fitting.”

Belle shook her head. She’d be fifty, and Mrs. Potts would refer to her as a child. She lifted Neal into the chair next to the cook, and took a seat on the other side of him.

Relieved of their shoes by the attendant, she perched on a low stool to measure their feet. Belle knew the size she would require, herself, but Neal’s toes seemed to curl in of their own volition when the woman attempted to take his measurements first.

Neal ended up with a pair of everyday lace-up boots durable enough to stand near anything he might get into, and a pair of nice shoes with a shine on them, for occasions that might call for it. The shine seemed to interest him enough that he didn’t become awkward about them being for him.

“It’s been quite a while since we’ve had such a delivery out,” Mrs. Potts observed as they left the department store.

Belle grinned. Mrs. Potts was having as fine a time as she was, fussing over Neal. Christopher had gotten to an age where he resisted being doted upon, and she knew for a fact that the woman missed it a great deal.

As they made their way down the sidewalk, Neal reached up, slipping his hand into Belle’s. It gave her a little surprise, and she looked down at him, smiling.

“Only two more shops,” she said, then looked over at the cook thoughtfully. “Mrs. Potts… We do have time to drop by the sweets shop, don’t we? I believe we’ve shopped ourselves past lunch.” She saw Neal’s attention snap to her from his position between them.

Mrs. Potts looked at Belle, then gave a teasing, dour look down at the boy. “We’ll see how long it takes us. Perhaps a very quick stop by.”

Belle’s prediction that Neal would enjoy her own planned stops was resoundingly accurate. She took him into the stationery store to buy him a drawing pad and pencils of his own, and found him peering curiously at a box of crayons in the display next to the register. He was so enraptured by them, she thought he might swallow his tongue when she asked for a box to be added to his drawing supplies.

The confectioner’s bright pink storefront was a pretty spot of color in the otherwise very businesslike row of brown and gray shops around it. One might have thought Neal had been dropped right into Heaven, the way he went agape as they stepped inside.

Mrs. Potts had a preference for candied apricots. Belle tended toward the chocolates, and Neal was so overwhelmed by the choices presented that she ended up having to choose a number of sweets for him in small amounts. They left the shop with him thoroughly enjoying a little paper pouch filled with tasting samples of Turkish delight, and Mrs. Potts carrying his box of other sweets, as well as a box of petit fours for the night’s dessert.

They arrived back at the French estate in the late afternoon, a mostly asleep little boy tagging slowly along. Once Mrs. Potts had the kitchen staff sorted out from their ragtaggedness in her absence, they took Neal upstairs. Getting him settled for a much-needed nap was something Belle could have seen to, herself, but Mrs. Potts wanted to witness as he entered what had become his room while they were gone.

Lumiere, along with a couple of the maids, had brought a bit of Belle’s childhood furniture down from the attic. The guest room had been rearranged into a proper room for a child. The smaller sleigh bed was just the size for Neal to be comfortable in, without getting lost in the one made with a pair of adults in mind. Her little roll-top desk - the one she’d likely spent an accumulation of years at - sat on the other side of the bedside table, giving him a fine place to draw. There was a toy chest at the foot of the bed, shelves with her children’s books unpacked into them, and her toys arranged just as the eldest maid had placed them after a tidying up when she was small. Belle felt a little pang of nostalgia at the familiarity.

Neal hesitated in the doorway when he saw the change, and she urged him forward.

“Go on,” she encouraged, handing him the package that held his drawing things. “It’s all yours. You can use everything as you like.”

Neal crossed to the desk, setting the package on top, and went over to the bed to peer at the teddy bear that leaned against the pillow. He turned and went back to Belle, taking her hand and tugging on it to bring her down. 

She knelt in front of him. “What is it?” she asked, hardly getting the words out when he wrapped his arms around her neck. 

“Thank you,” he said, muffled against her shoulder.

“You are most welcome,” she told him quietly, to belie the lump in her throat, and gave him a squeeze as she blinked back the sting in her eyes. When his embrace loosened, she took him by the arms and gave him a sound kiss on the cheek, receiving a giggle in return for it.

Mrs. Potts, behind her, hid a sniffle. “I believe you still have time for a rest before dinner, if you like. I’ll look after the boy.”

Belle nodded. “You have a good nap,” she said, sitting back and getting to her feet. “I’ll see you when you wake up.”

Neal nodded, and Belle wondered if Mrs. Potts _would_ get him to sleep, as awake as he was after the surprise of the room’s rearrangement.

She went next door to her own room, getting out of her clothes. She could just hear the sound of Mrs. Potts’ voice as Neal was being divested of Chip’s clothing for the last time. Belle put her dressing gown on over her underthings until she had to dress for dinner, and she lay on her stomach across her bed, taking _Gray’s Anatomy_ from her nightstand.

She took her bookmark from the pages detailing the muscles of the hand, and ran the slip of paper between her fingers. She could feel the slight, indented texture of Rummond’s signature. After a moment, she placed it aside and set to reading. When her head began feeling heavy, she curled her arm and rested her cheek on it at an angle that allowed her to still see the words.

It didn’t seem strange at all, Rummond being in her bedroom. Nor did it seem strange that she looked up to find him sitting on the edge of her bed. It was the light that struck her as odd - too soft, somehow, and too little. She wanted to have a better look at his face, and it was frustrating that there wasn’t enough light for it.

He leaned over her, and she felt his lips brush against her cheek, and that was too soft, as well. She reached to grab his lapel, realizing that it was a shirt lapel and not the collar of his hospital gown, and somehow that gave her a thrill. She couldn’t catch hold of it, though. He kissed her cheek again, and then her neck, and she waited to feel his breath, but it never crossed her skin. Her frustration grew, wanting _more_ of him, _closer_.

His hand touched her side, and that was more what she needed. She tried to tell him, but her voice wouldn’t work, and that for some reason made her laugh. He pulled back, smiling at her, and she leaned to kiss him - she couldn’t not kiss him, with that smile - but the closer she leaned, the more she needed to lean. A wave of warmth ran along her skin, as if she sank herself into the bath. Rummond’s hand moved up her side, and she felt his fingers cup against the underside of her breast.

Belle startled awake, short of breath and immediately disappointed that her dream had broken.

 _That_ was new, though. She couldn’t think of a time when she’d dreamt of… that. Anything like that.

The ghost of a touch in her dream left her blood singing and her skin wanting. Belle closed her eyes and let her thoughts return to the soft images and too-light touches, hoping she might fall back into them, allowing her hand to stray to her breast as she imagined what his hands might really feel like…

Her heart jarred into her throat at a sound at her door.

There was a series of little taps. “Yes?” she said, attempting to sound as if she had at least some of her wits about her.

“Nurse Belle?” Neal said, sounding as if he spoke right into the seam of the door. “Mrs. Potts said to fetch you for dinner.”

Belle jumped, reaching for her lapel watch on the nightstand. She hadn’t slept that long! But she had, it turned out.

“Thank you, Neal. I’ll be down in a moment,” she called back to him.

“She said to say the Harrods van came, too.”

“All right. Thank you,” she said, and she heard small footsteps take off running.

She tucked her hair behind her ears, falling back and looking at the ceiling. From a strictly objective standpoint, she’d given Rummond no more outward affection than a good friend might. But the affection she _felt_ … That was an entirely different creature, and it dawned on her that it could be- that it _was_ far more than a simple fondness for him. It was so much more than she’d ever felt for Donat that it took her breath. She’d been trying to reconcile that with the diamonds on her finger for months, before finally being able to give them back. Now that they were gone, it wasn’t only her hand that felt lighter.

Rummond didn’t have time for such things, though. He was trying to heal. The most basic functions of living were all he could manage some days. Fiddling around romantically with her wasn’t something he would have time for - and she couldn’t be sure he would return her feelings, if she _did_ let him know how she felt.

But _oh,_ her days were so much brighter since Rummond! Her horizons seemed wider, somehow. And she wasn’t sure how that happened, when they only seemed to narrow further each day she was with Donat.

She thought of the way Rummond looked at her, the way he reacted to her touch, the smiles he gave her and the things he would do only for her… And the warm feeling in her chest bloomed into a delicious ache.


	53. The Substance of Things Hoped For

“Lumiere.”

“Loomy.”

“Lu-mi- _ere.”_

Neal squinted in sleepy concentration. _“Loomy.”_

The butler sighed, dropping his head onto his hand. Belle snickered, interrupting the scene she’d been attempting to witness quietly. Found out, she came from around the doorframe and stepped into the kitchen.

“Thirty years ago, I was over a house in Neuilly-sur-Seine,” Lumiere began. “Three children under five, and every single one could enunciate my name.”

“I’m sure it helped that they were _French_ children who were raised up speaking _French.”_ Belle grinned, crossing to the icebox. She reached to take the picnic basket from the top, trying to catch the rim with her fingertips so that she could pull it down.

The butler rose from his seat, easily plucking it down for her. “It was one of your first words, my name,” he said proudly.

“Lumiere,” Belle scolded lightly, setting the basket on the counter. “I had the benefit of parents fluent in the language. Though somehow I highly doubt that I said it so clearly.”

He looked down at Neal. “You see? Miss Belle can say it.”

“Loomy!” Neal clapped both hands over his mouth to smother his laughter.

“And now he is doing it on purpose.”

Belle swallowed a laugh of her own. She caught Mrs. Potts’ shoulders shaking, as well, though the cook faced the stove. “He’ll catch on.”

Neal took a piece of gingerbread from the plate in front of him. He leaned up, holding it out toward Lumiere. Though the butler made him wait for a second, he took it, attempting to look as if the smile on his face was a begrudging one. Belle was certain that she saw him give the boy an overly dignified wink before leaving.

Mrs. Potts set a pie on the counter. “Good morning,” she greeted, and Neal chimed in with the same right after.

“Good morning!” Belle gave Neal’s hair a gentle ruffle, and Mrs. Potts reached to smooth it down again - as well as it would smooth. “You’ve been up long enough to have a pie made and cooled?”

“I’ve been up long enough to have breakfast preparations ready, sandwiches and gingerbread made, a child dressed, and the South Pole claimed for the King. Pie was done last night, before I saw my bed.” Mrs. Potts grinned over at her as she took a server from the drawer, setting about cutting the pie in half. 

Belle smiled, surprised but delighted. The cook had said nothing about making a pie for her picnic basket. “Thank you. I’m sure it’s been ages since Captain Gold has had a proper piece of pie.”

“If he’s anything like the boy, he’ll be in sore need of it.”

In lieu of agreeing aloud, Belle gave her a wide-eyed look and a nod in confirmation. Two days into having Neal in the house, and it was like living with a smaller, even quieter version of Rummond.

“Pear and almond,” Mrs. Potts said as she transferred slices into an enameled container meant to fit the basket. “It’ll be fine cold, if you don’t want to take it down to have it warmed.”

Belle turned back to the icebox to find the plate of aforementioned sandwiches. They were covered with a napkin, trimmed and stacked neatly, ready to tuck away into another container. She lined it with the napkin before moving them.

“You slept well?” Mrs. Potts asked. She glanced up as she took a few pieces of gingerbread to send along. 

“Quite well.” Belle’s sleep the night before had been sound, though she woke a little disappointed. She’d hoped for her dream to return. Still, she could hardly keep a smile from her face at the memory of it.

She noticed Mrs. Potts giving her a steady look, and she turned to Neal. “Did you sleep well?”

He only nodded, which wasn’t much in the way of distraction. Belle pulled her lower lip between her teeth to mute her smile, but the gesture only seemed to make Mrs. Potts look at her more closely.

Belle pulled the clamps up to secure the container lid, setting it inside the basket. “I believe we’re ready to go!”

Neal hopped down from his stool, wide awake now that it was time to leave. 

“Do you have your drawings?” she asked.

He ran to the kitchen door, where the cabinet joined the wall, and took a sheaf of papers from beneath a butter knife.

“Do you want them in the basket for safekeeping?”

“I can carry them,” he said, holding the little pieces of art meant for his Papa securely between his hands.

Neal no longer had to be to be urged into the car. He scrambled quickly in after her, papers held to the front of his coat with one arm. He spent the ride craning his neck to look in front of Belle, watching for the hospital. It wasn’t long past dawn, and it seemed the whole of the world was hazed over in early morning mist, but Belle wanted to go in as early as she could. Rummond would be expecting them.

As soon as the hospital was within view, Neal began to squirm. He launched from the car the moment it stopped.

“Slow down,” Belle said after him as he took off up the steps. “Be careful!”

Neal simply called without looking back, “Going to see Papa!”

Rummond had felt more at loose ends than he had in a very long time, after Neal and Belle left the ward. He’d cleaned up the playing cards and got himself ready for bed, and he read a grand total of three sentences before finding himself distracted into thoughts of what they might be doing. He wondered how Neal would fare, being juggled from place to place so quickly, being sent to a strange house with a person he didn’t know. 

On Sunday morning, he woke early to make certain that he was freshly washed and watching when they came in. He’d been sitting up in his bunk for half an hour before a nurse turned the lights on. The way he figured it, the lighter the sky grew, the more likely it was that the next people who walked in would be Neal and Belle.

Each time a nurse or orderly came in, a little jolt of expectation ran through him. The sun had just truly risen when he had an errant doubtful thought that perhaps something had happened so that they couldn’t visit. It was ridiculous; they were likely just getting out of bed. And visitors didn’t typically begin trickling in until morning church services were over. He didn’t know whether Belle might attend or not - he might have hours to wait yet.

There was a thump at the other side of the ward door. It pushed open a moment later, and suddenly there was Neal hurtling toward him.

The little boy rounded Corporal Reyes’ footlocker and darted directly for his father, throwing himself into Rummond’s arms with the trust that he would be caught. He wrapped his free arm around his father’s neck, doing nothing more than holding on for a good while.

“Did you drive yourself?” Rummond teased, patting his back.

 _“No,”_ Neal said, laughing, and leaned back to see his Papa’s face. “Mr. Hor- Horatio brought us.”

Rummond nodded thoughtfully. “That was perhaps a safer choice.”

Neal smiled, bumping his nose into his Papa’s cheek. “I brought you something.”

“Did you, now?”

The boy pulled his drawings from between them, holding them up as if they could only be seen from an inch away. Once his father held them, he wiggled over to sit next to him, watching expectantly as his art was slowly pored over.

“That’s Nurse Belle’s house,” Neal told him, pointing helpfully, and he continued as Rummond looked. “That’s Mrs. Potts. She’s nice. That’s Belle’s Papa. He’s…” Neal scrunched his face up.

“He isn’t nice?” Rummond asked.

“He’s nice, but his face is grumpy sometimes. That’s-” Neal hesitated.

Rummond looked down at a simple pencil drawing. He recognized himself and his son, and he was quite sure who the frowning woman was. Neal stared at it.

“It’s all right to miss her,” he told his son, lifting a hand to run over the boy’s hair.

Neal’s frown deepened for a second, and he reached out to tug the piece of paper away, placing it behind the rest, as his Papa had been doing while he looked. 

“That’s my room,” he said more quietly, leaning more weight into his father’s side.

Belle felt as though everyone she crossed paths with could read her new understanding all over her as easily as if it were pinned to her cap. She wanted to revel in it - the happiness and a good sort of anxious feeling low in her stomach, and the slightly different sort of anticipation of seeing Rummond. But it was something better kept very quiet. For now, at least. 

She rounded the corner into the east wing just in time to see Neal successfully get onto the ward. After a quick peek to make sure he’d found his father, she went to fetch a cup of tea for Rummond before going in, herself.

When she elbowed her way carefully through the door, she found Jefferson at the farther bedside. It seemed the introduction had gone rather more successfully this time. Neal knelt up to make himself taller, though he leaned against his father’s shoulder. He and Jefferson, whose face was animated in the way it was when Grace visited, were managing a brief chat about something while Rummond looked on.

She set the cup in its saucer on the bedside table, and stepped away to place the picnic basket on his footlocker.

“Good morning,” he said when she took a seat next to Neal.

Belle smiled over at him. She couldn’t recall the last time he’d greeted her first. “Good morning.”

Jefferson looked back and forth between Belle and Rummond, and he gave a waving, dismissive gesture at the lot of them. “Right. I’ll go on about my business,” he said, grinning broadly over his shoulder as he went back to his own bunk.

Neal turned, dropping down to sit, and Rummond waited until his son had stopped bouncing before he reached for his tea. Taking a sip, he watched as Neal asked shyly for a piece of candy. She took the boy’s cap and coaxed him from his coat before searching out a piece from her pocket.

Neal was clean and in far better dress than when he’d departed with Belle, and judging by the entirety of the situation when he’d been brought in on Friday morning, Rummond was fairly certain that Milah had included nothing like them in the suitcase she’d mentioned before bolting. They were so new that they still smelled like a department store.

“How has he been?” Rummond asked while his son worked at opening the taffy Belle offered. He rested a hand on the blanket behind Neal, arm not quite around him. “Is he settling in? Did he sleep well?”

Belle nodded. “He’s done well, so far. He seems to be settling in just fine.”

“Is he eating? Playing? Has he said anything about- anything?” Rummond went on before she’d finished answering his last round.

She laughed softly at his flood of questions, moving to rest her hand over his. The contact stemmed his speech, and she got a few more words in.

Belle answered everything he asked, the questions easing in more slowly, and told him all he wanted to know. She gave him practically moment by moment detail of Neal’s last two days, though she held back the instances in the little boy’s behavior that had concerned her. She would fill in those bits when Neal wasn’t listening.

Neal ate perhaps half the piece of taffy, and he wrapped the rest carefully in its paper again, putting it in his trouser pocket. She’d have to make certain that was gone when he took them off tonight, or the two of them would catch a lecture from Mrs. Potts when it ended up in the wash.

“I was thinking… If you’d like, if you want Neal put into school, I could,” she offered, hoping it wasn’t too presumptuous of her to ask. The boy was bright - there was no doubt in her head about that - and she knew he would benefit a great deal from a proper classroom.

“Oh, I hadn’t thought- yes, of course.” Rummond smiled, glad she’d considered it. It went quite a way toward reassuring him that she was making sure his son did more than simply exist in her house. “I don’t know the name of his previous school, whether they might have records. Neal, do you remember-”

“He hasn’t been,” Belle told him, her voice soft.

His smile faded a bit. “I meant to have him in school, but… I thought she’d go ahead and send him along.”

“Children go in late for all manner of reasons. He’ll do fine,” she assured him, giving his hand a squeeze. “He showed me how you’d taught him to write his name.”

Rummond’s smile broadened again, remembering. He’d helped Neal to learn his full name not long after returning home for good, and Neal had held onto it. He reached for his son, catching him and pulling him into his lap. 

Neal squawked a tickled little laugh as his father pressed a delighted kiss to his cheek. He lay in his Papa’s arms, for a moment limp with giggling. Belle just beamed, happy to be there and see it, to be a part of helping them, and she felt a pang of yearning to wrap her arms around both of them. She slipped her hands under her thighs to keep them there.

A visitor wandered in here and there, and Gardner brought in the trolley filled with breakfast trays. Neal ate from his father’s plate again, and Rummond was nothing if not happy to share.

“He’s kept a healthy appetite?” he asked, giving his plate over to his son, pulling bits off a piece of toast for himself.

Belle considered prompting him to eat more, but the few bites of egg and sausage he’d had were far more than he usually managed this early. He was eating _something._

“Oh, yes.” She had a little chuckle. “He’ll have at anything set before him.”

Rummond grinned. “He takes after me, there.”

Belle turned slowly, giving him a wry look.

“Before,” he said, more than a little sheepish in his awareness of how she fought to get any food at all in him some days. “Before everything. I was the same.”

Breakfast had been cleared perhaps an hour when the priest and three nuns - visitors rain or shine every Sunday since Belle had been at Firefly Hill - arrived. The greater flow of people began soon after.

Neal didn’t leave his father’s side until near lunchtime, when he was forced to run to the privy. Once he’d gone, Rummond looked to Belle, crossing his arms low. “He’s never been so quiet.”

“No?” She shifted a bit closer, so they might speak more quietly.

“Before she took him, he was…” A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, but it fell again. “He was a wee chatterbox. Always wanting me to sit on the floor and play with him, always showing his mother and I this and that. He’s too quiet.”

Belle took the opportunity of Neal being out of earshot and Rummond bringing up his son’s behavior to tell him about the boy’s odd moments. She told him the bits she’d gleaned from Neal telling her things, himself. Rummond took in everything she said, his response seeming more sadness than surprise. As she spoke, his arms uncrossed, hands resting in his lap. She recognized the way his posture changed.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to upset you,” she whispered. “I only thought you should know.”

It was all very familiar to Rummond. Belle detailed actions in Neal that he could remember in himself as a small boy, and it made his heart ache that his son had been through anything _near_ what he’d survived.

“It’s all right.” He attempted a halfhearted smile for her. “I need to know. You won’t keep anything from me? Not where he’s concerned?”

Belle nodded, reaching to touch his hand where he’d begun fretting at his belt. She looked over at the papers that Neal had brought along. Rummond had set them on his table. “Did he tell you about his drawings?”

“A bit. He quietened when we got around to a particular one.” He took them, flipping back to the pencil drawing.

Belle looked over. Neal didn’t appear to have added anything more to it since leaving it on her father’s desk. “He made that the first evening.” 

“He misses her.” Rummond shook his head, shuffling the papers back together, and set them on the table again. “He’s hurting.”

“He’ll heal, and he will get better.” She patted Rummond’s arm before taking her hand back. “He smiles when he talks about you, you know. He’s absolutely over the moon when he’s _with_ you.”

A true smile drew up the corners of Rummond’s mouth, and he glanced in the direction of the washroom. “Is he?”

She swayed, bumping her shoulder against his. “Can’t you see how thrilled he is to see you? Every day, he wants to know how much longer there is until he can see his Papa.”

Rummond’s smile grew, and he ducked his head. 

“I, ah-” he began a bit hesitantly after a moment of quiet between them. “I meant to ask. What was in the suitcase? The one that Milah brought with him?” 

Belle managed not to cringe. This was precisely the conversation she didn’t want to have. She tried to will Neal to return from the washroom, to save her from it. “There wasn’t much,” she admitted. “None of it in good repair.”

“And yet…?”

“He needed some serviceable clothing, so Mrs. Potts and I took him out and bought a few things.”

“I didn’t intend you to have to buy things for him.”

“It’s perfectly all right. And I don’t _have_ to. I want to.”

A wave of guilt nagged at Rummond. On one hand, he was glad that she cared enough to be so generous. But she was providing for Neal in ways he had no prospect of being able to anywhere in the near future. 

“I’ll pay you back everything you spend on him, once I’m in control of my accounts again. Keep a tally of it, and as soon as-”

“You’ll do no such thing.”

“Belle, your savings are for school,” he reminded her quietly. “I’ll put the money back.”

“None of it is coming out of my savings. It’s the house account.”

The house account. Which meant it came from… “Your father? Belle!”

Her smile was unwavering. “It’s all right, Rummond. Honestly. Neal is a joy to have around. My father actually tried to talk about something other than business last evening.” She didn’t mention that Neal wasn’t terribly enthusiastic over the polo knowledge her father had absorbed from Donat, but it was a start. “Please don’t worry over it?”

Rummond shook his head, but the privy door clicked open. “Did you wash your hands?” he asked as Neal trotted back to them.

Neal raised his hands, showing them proof in his damp shirt cuffs.

“You’re a good boy,” Rummond told him. Neal needed to know that. He grabbed his son up, and Neal was content to curl in against his Papa’s chest for a while as he held on tightly. “Such a good boy.”

When Rummond let go, Neal squished himself between his father and Belle to sit on what could barely be called the other side of the narrow bed, and she realized how closely they were sitting. With a quick check of her watch, she rose to go get their picnic basket.

The basket had nearly been emptied by the time lunch was done, much of that owing to a little boy’s appetite. Rummond ate more than was usual for him lately, though the lion’s share of that was in pie and gingerbread. Belle was only glad he’d eaten two mealtimes in a row.

She had to clock in when later afternoon came around, but she found moments to stop and spend with them. It didn’t escape her notice that Rummond could content himself with simply watching his son. She didn’t think she saw either of them without a smile the whole of the evening. Until it began growing dark out.

When visitors began to leave, Neal went from cheerful and energetic to clingy and anxious, making certain that he didn’t fall out of contact with his Papa. Dinner came and went, and both of them seemed to eat as if it were a chore.

Belle let Neal stay until the priest left, making the boy the very last non-resident on the ward. Reluctantly, she went to tell them that it was time for Neal to go home. She wasn’t surprised when he wrapped his arms around his father’s neck and held on, and she wondered how many visits they would have to make before he believed that he wouldn’t be taken away or left behind again.

“Your Papa will have to go to sleep before long. Look there,” she said, pointing to Rummond. “Doesn’t he look a little sleepy?”

Neal didn’t play along with her coaxing. “Next Sunday,” he reminded, as though they might forget.

 _“Every_ Sunday,” Belle assured him. “Every single Sunday.”

Neal’s reply was glum and soft. “Okay…” 

Rummond gathered him close again, scattering kisses over his son’s cheek. “You know I love you, duckling. Don’t you?”

Neal nodded, laying his head on his father’s shoulder for as long as he could, and told him as if he worried he might not have another chance, “Love you, too, Papa.”

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

Monday was the calmest day they’d had on the ward in months. It was worrisome, casting a feeling as if they were being given a calm before the storm. On both the good and bad side of things, it gave Belle entire quarter-hours at a time to sit with Rummond without being interrupted.

It was lovely, and his spirits seemed to lift gradually again after the sun rose. But the longer she sat with him, the more she wanted to tell him how she felt. The more she wanted to touch him. The more she wanted to kiss him. 

_God,_ but she wanted to kiss him.

She kept having to come up with tasks to see to, which wasn’t easy, considering how the day was going. And then, time and again, she found herself perched on the edge of his bed. They played their way through a game of rummy in three installments after breakfast, and she encouraged him to talk about the bit of his book he’d read while he poked and prodded his way through lunch with his fork.

Belle continually reminded herself and her flip-flopping stomach that she couldn’t simply blurt her feelings to him. It wasn’t that it was the height of unprofessionalism (or the trite stereotype given to nurses who looked after servicemen) - though she’d have been lying if she said neither concerned her at all - but what he might think of her for such a confession. Would he look at her as if she were mad? Or like some lovestruck child? She thought she could handle a blatant refusal of her affection far better than being brushed aside as not knowing her own heart. The possibilities made her feel a bit ill when her thoughts skipped across them again.

He hadn’t slept much, if any, the night before. She’d sat in her chair and watched him toss and turn beneath his layers of blankets. Sometime after midnight, when he still hadn’t settled, she went down to the kitchen and prepared a little tea for him. She sat with him while he nursed it, the warmth from the cup seeming to do more to ease his restlessness than the tea, itself. By the time she left him again, he’d calmed somewhat. Though, he still shifted in his bed so often through the night that she was sure he couldn’t have properly rested.

She found him having fallen asleep around three that afternoon, his fingers caught in his book to mark his place. Going over, she carefully released his hand from the pages, and she slipped his bookmark in before setting the novel square to the corner of his bedside table as he always placed it. She didn’t sit, afraid she would wake him if she did, but the urge to be close burned in her.

The ward was quiet, so she took her time. She pulled the covers a bit higher, looking her fill in a way she couldn’t when he was awake without it making him fidget.

Belle saw more and more in him. More of the little things that made him up. The gray beginning in his hair, that seemed to have spread farther in his months here. She wondered whether he’d had any before he was shipped home for the last time. The fullness of his lower lip, and the scar above his upper one. It was old enough that there was no pink or silver to it at all, and she was uncertain whether or not she wanted to know where it came from. The faint creases marking where his dimples formed when he smiled a _real_ smile. One that reached his eyes.

She knew where her heart lay - with a man and little boy who weren’t hers, though they felt more and more as if they should be.

Nurse Mills obstructed her on her way out that evening, as if the woman had been waiting.

“I do need to get home,” Belle tried to excuse herself. “I have something to see to.”

She didn’t slow, meaning to breeze by and right out the door, but the head nurse caught her arm. 

“A nanny, now, are you?” She looked down on the younger nurse. “My, how far you’ve fallen.”

Belle pulled away and crossed her arms around her anatomy text, putting on a patient smile rather than the glare she _felt._ Showing her temper would be too satisfying for Nurse Mills. “I can’t imagine how you might consider taking care of someone’s child as having ‘fallen,’” she said tolerantly. “I’m quite enjoying it, as a matter of fact.”

The head nurse grinned. “Oh, not the child itself. Your… _accommodation._ Do you not feel manipulated? Exploited? What is it that you believe will happen when your pet leaves the hospital? Do you really think _Captain_ Gold will have a use for you, once he’s taken his child out of your care?”

The way Nurse Mills continued to place a derisive emphasis on Rummond’s rank set her teeth on edge. “I offered to take in Captain Gold’s son. He didn’t have a single word of suggestion toward the idea.”

“You don’t think a man like that knows how to put you precisely where he wants you? Really, Nurse French. I’d thought you brighter than that.” The head nurse sucked at her teeth. 

“Respectfully, Nurse Mills, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You were once a promising nurse. How unfortunate, succumbing to the snares and honeyed words of a lecher, throwing away such talent.”

Unable to take another word of her condescension, Belle dropped her arms, narrowing her eyes as she recalled the way the head nurse had spoken about Rummond before. “What is it, precisely, that you have against Captain Gold? Why do you hold this- this- animosity toward him?”

“The wickedest of men have the most persuasive of tongues,” Nurse Mills said cryptically, leaning close to sneer into Belle’s face. “I’m quite certain you’ll find this out for yourself. Eventually.”

Belle stared after the head nurse as she swished haughtily away. With a roll of her eyes, she continued out to her bicycle.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

Belle learned the next morning that she would likely have little pieces of art for Rummond every day she came to work. They made him smile, and made Neal feel productive and helpful, so she was more than happy to be the little boy’s delivery service.

Neal had given her the papers the night before, making certain they were placed where she would remember. She was mildly surprised when he didn’t rise with the sun to see her off with them. 

Rummond hadn’t seemed to be having the best of days, until she brought the drawings out from behind her back. He made a soft, hopeful little sound that burrowed right beneath her breastbone, reaching for them. She meant to hover for a few moments as he looked through, but she sat next to him before she quite knew it.

There were more drawings of Neal and his Papa. He found a page filled right to the edges with green and orange, and she explained how Neal played in the back garden

“It isn’t terribly active play just yet. He walks around the trees, pokes about beneath the shrubs for living things.” She smiled. He’d learned very quickly that the maids weren’t nearly as fascinated as he was with the tiny, green and brown garden lizards he’d discovered. “He has more imaginative play in the house.”

Rummond wished that Booth hadn’t been such a great lying arse. He might have been able to ask the man to whittle something for his son to play outdoors with.

Belle gave him a gentle nudge to the ribs with her elbow. “Keep going.”

The next drawing was a bit of green around a wide blue oval, with what appeared to be a cluster of birds, if he judged the wings and beaks correctly.

She told him about the little pond and ducks that Mrs. Potts showed Neal when they went for a walk the previous morning. “Mrs. Potts said he wanted to get to know the ducks, but they were a bit too skittish to let him get close.”

“He mentioned Mrs. Potts. Said she was nice?”

“Oh, she’s lovely. She pretends to be a disciplinarian, but she’s soft as bread pudding. They’re quite taken with one another.”

“Who else is there?” Rummond asked. She’d mentioned the cook and her father, but the rest was a bit vague. 

Belle told him about the rest of the house staff, as well as Mrs. Potts’ grandson and Josephine’s late husband, whom the older maid spoke of as if he were still with them. 

When she got around to the driver who would be ferrying Neal to and fro on Sundays, Rummond nodded. Neal had said the name. “Horatio… A bit short, stout? Thin mustache?”

“Well, yes.” She gave him a curious look, wondering how they might have crossed paths.

With a grin, he turned the next drawing that Neal had send along, so that Belle could see. She laughed. It looked more like a mantle clock than a driver standing next to a long, black motor car, but there was a definite resemblance.

“I don’t mean to interrogate,” he said, fixing the dog-eared corner of one of the papers.

“Oh, it’s no trouble. Of course you should be familiar with the staff, if your son is meant to be around them. But he’s safe.”

Rummond nodded, his curiosity seeming satisfied. When he kept glancing over at her, though, it was obvious that he had another question. After a few moments, he gave in to it. “May I ask about your mother?”

She’d never brought her mother into conversation, and he hadn’t asked out of worry that he’d be prying too far. When someone didn’t talk about a parent, it was often for good reason.

A wistful look crossed her features, ending as quickly as it began. “She passed away when I was small.”

“I’m sorry,” Rummond apologized quickly. He _had_ pried. “I didn’t mean to reopen a wound.”

“You didn’t.” She reached for the hand that didn’t hold his son’s drawings, giving him a smile when he looked at her. “Neal will be starting school on Monday.”

“You’ve enrolled him?” he asked, brightening.

“Mrs. Potts took him to see the headmaster yesterday morning. It’s all arranged.”

Rummond returned her smile. “Thank you.”

“He’ll be attending the school I went to when I was his age,” she continued, hoping that more information would reassure him. “Boys and girls have classes together, and only the headmaster has been replaced since I attended. _That_ change is for the better. I don’t think I ever had a cruel teacher there.”

Rummond was glad to know his boy would be going to a school that set Belle on a good path, as far as education went. But oh, how he wished that he could be there to see him off.

He smiled up at her - a soft, odd sort of smile that creased the corners of his eyes and sent a queer little thrill down through her stomach. She became aware of her breaths coming a bit deeper, a bit quicker, and she realized her own body was betraying her feelings when she felt heat creeping into her cheeks.

He opened his mouth as if he were going to say something, but he hesitated long enough that she found a question of, “What is it?” coming out of her mouth. Instantly, she wished she hadn’t broken the silence. She could have pinched herself for it. He shook his head and looked away, the smile still on his face. 

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

The storm Belle had been waiting for rolled in early Wednesday morning with Corporal Knight’s episode. 

Knight hadn’t been in the very best of shape. For the last few weeks, his auditory hallucinations had seemed close at hand, triggering with any sufficiently loud noise. And so, when Quinn dropped a breakfast tray right across the aisle from him…

Belle had been speaking with Ruby about the pair of stitches in Captain Lapointe’s jaw, and both flinched as the metal tray and everything on it hit tile. Knight cried out, and Ruby hurried away to try and help, muttering an insult to the orderly’s capability with his job. 

In rapid succession, Jezek and Quinn began having it out very loudly over the orderly’s clumsiness, and Mr. Flynn, at the far end of the ward, left his bed in favor of standing with his face in the corner at the front of the room. Belle couldn’t blame Flynn too much for getting as far from the noise as he could, but the sight was a little unsettling. It was turning out to be quite a day, indeed.

When she went through her own beds to check her patients, Commander Strand drew her attention. He’d pushed his covers back, and he rubbed at the end of his amputated leg with a strained expression.

“You’re in pain?” she asked as she approached him.

Strand startled a little, looking up at her. Reluctantly, he admitted that he was. “Nothing to be done about it,” he said, wrapping his hands around his leg above where his knee would have been, putting pressure on it. “Haven’t met a doctor yet who could make it stop when it took a spell.”

“None of them were me,” she said, giving him a quick smile. “Let me see what I can do.”

She knew what to do about phantom pain, at least in the short term. It was one thing she’d learned early on in the field hospitals. She found Nurse Nolan trailing the head nurse around the ward, and stopped her to ask, “Do you know if there might be any laudanum in the hospital?”

She wouldn’t have been shocked if there wasn’t - it was falling more and more out of favor. But Nurse Nolan squinted, thinking. “I believe there might be. Nurse Mills would know for certain.”

Belle gave her a bit of a dry look.

Nurse Nolan nodded. “Ah. Of course. Give me a few minutes and I’ll go and check, myself?”

“Only one dose,” Belle clarified. “Enough for a man of Commander Strand’s size.”

After his first bolt-hole was found out, Rummond had tried to make his retreats to the storage room as infrequent as he could. There were times, though, when he had a choice between leaving the ward or holding out until the atmosphere sent him into a panic. It didn’t help _at all_ that Nurse Mills had been sending glowered looks toward him all morning. Whatever it was in the air seemed to have the head nurse on one of her many bad sides, as well. He suspected that it was only the rest of the commotion on the ward that had so far kept her from inflicting her sharp tongue on him.

He took deep breaths, holding onto them and letting go of them slowly, as Belle taught him to do when he felt himself with a shaky grip on the world. Then Lieutenant Hargreaves slapped a book down on his table, covering his ears and squeezing his eyes shut, and Rummond hit the end of his rope. 

The second he found Nurse Mills’ back turned, he slipped off the ward. He hadn’t much felt like breakfast, anyway.

Belle saw Rummond sneak quietly away a half hour into the chaos. She was a bit impressed that he’d lasted so long, and glad he’d decided to seek a calm place before whatever it was about the day could spread to him. With the intention of checking on him as soon as everyone could be helped, she left him to himself for a little while.

By the time the ward was quiet again and breakfast trays had been successfully handed out, lunch was just over an hour away. She sighed, taking a moment’s rest on Rummond’s footlocker. Someone would have to let Zelda know that lunch needed to be pushed and tea could be dropped for the day. 

Unfortunately, Commander Strand’s pain had been relegated a bit lower in importance on the list. Nurse Nolan at last went to attempt to fetch the laudanum, and she came back with a teaspoonful poured into a paper medicine cup.

Most painkillers didn’t touch phantom pain. Laudanum didn’t always work miracles, but she’d seen a good many men with fresh amputations and old relieved by it. She called Ariel over and gave her the little cup along with instructions. Who knew, perhaps it would get her to open her mouth and _speak_ to him.

After a look around, reassured that Ariel would take care of anything that might happen while she was off the ward, Belle stepped out. She had to go down and tell Zelda about the change in schedule, but as long as the ward remained in its tenuous state of peace, she had a few minutes free to peek in on Rummond.

The hospital’s cook was utterly unbothered by having one less meal to prepare, as it turned out. Belle made her apologies for hurrying back out, but there was somewhere she wanted to be far more than the kitchen.

The corridors were clear as she headed back for the foyer, and though Nurse Lind was at the desk, she studiously ignored Belle coming around to tap on the storage room door.

“Rummond?” she said, opening the door just enough to step inside.

“Here,” he called quietly back, and she locked the doorknob behind her.

He had the blanket spread beneath him, and he sat to one side of it, as though he saved her a space there, just in case she had time. Belle smiled at him though he wasn’t looking at her. She sat down next to him, perhaps a _bit_ nearer than usual.

“You’re all right?” she asked. He didn’t shake, and he didn’t look as if he’d been crying. Both observations were comforting.

Rummond nodded. He straightened his robe over the bent knee of his good leg, where he had his foot tucked beneath him. “I left before Hell managed to rain down on me too heavily.” He huffed a short laugh, looking over at her. “It’s calmed?”

“At last. I’m sure days like this take a good week off my life.” Belle pulled a long breath into her lungs and released it slowly. “Everyone is as all right as they can be, though.”

“Lieutenant Hargreaves? He seemed to be keying up for something when I left.”

“He’s fine. Lying down, rattled, but fine.”

Rummond’s insides felt a bit shaken, but it hadn’t translated to his hands. He’d felt panic coming over him, and he’d run from it. As relieved as he was that his mind and body weren’t trying to turn themselves inside out over nothing, there was a measure of shame running through him for the way he’d left. A needling voice at the back of his thoughts. 

_Still a coward._

Belle moved, turning to face him. She expected that he would want to ask about Neal. They hadn’t had a chance to talk this morning, really. It was nice to be able to come in and sit with him when he wasn’t panicking or terribly upset, and she was determined for them to enjoy it.

When she settled herself again, though, she found that his relaxed expression had fled. A frown carved into the corners of his mouth, and she wasn’t sure what changed in the few seconds between talking about the ward and now.

“Rummond?”

He shook his head, gaze fixed on his hands. 

“What is it? _Something’s_ the matter.”

“I ran,” he muttered bitterly.

“You-” She tried to parse this sudden shift. He meant from the ward? “You come here when you need to. You always do.”

“There’s a difference.” As he spoke, he shook his head again, more slowly. “I run _to_ this room to fall apart in private. To keep it from being seen. Today I ran _away_ from the ward, before it could get me.”

Belle watched him for a moment, gathering his words and her thoughts until she understood what was happening. “You left the ward when you felt panic developing, instead of waiting until it was already hurting you. There is nothing wrong with heading it off at the pass. That isn’t running away from something. That’s helping yourself to heal, and understanding what you need earlier in the process.” 

“I’m still nothing more than a coward.” He gave a choked laugh, echoing the thought that was clawing at him inside. “I’ve only gone and proven it again.”

She sighed. “Isn’t it something they teach you during training, that there’s no shame in retreating, regrouping, and coming back to fight harder? That’s what you’re accomplishing - the fight.”

“What they say and what they mean when it comes down to the wire are very two different things.”

“Oh, what bunk,” Belle snipped. She hadn't intended her tone to be so sharp, nor that it be directed at him, and she felt badly as soon as she said it.

He turned his face away from her.

“You are _not_ a coward,” she told him, and she knew that her own convictions about it wouldn’t convince him, but she couldn’t not say the words in the face of his miserable silence.

Belle reached out to him, touching his face to make him look at her. “Rummond,” she said softly. “You aren’t.”

She lifted the hand from her lap to cradle his face between her palms, her thumbs stroking gently over his cheekbones.

He gave her a look of bewilderment, questioning, his eyes locking with hers causing fingers of electricity to run down his spine. He wasn’t sure what she meant to do, but the way she looked at him made his heart thump hard against his ribcage.

His Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed, and she could feel him searching her eyes.

Rummond’s breath whispered across her lips from the space between them. “Belle…?”

It felt as if the world had utterly stopped turning, and she wasn’t certain she was going to do it until she found herself leaning in. Despite the reservations she’d talked herself into, the surety that she wouldn’t do something rash… she kissed him.

Their lips met and her stomach flipped, her pulse fluttering madly in her throat.

Belle had stolen his breath the moment she held his face, and it still took him a split second to catch up, his hands moving to curl lightly over her forearms. Her knee bumped against his thigh as she shifted closer, and she sucked gently at his lower lip in a way that sent a thrill of arousal right through him, making his head spin.

Far too soon, she was easing away to break the kiss. He wasn’t sure when he’d closed his eyes. For a few seconds afterward, he was lost. He couldn’t open them. When he did, she was too close to focus on. But he could tell how she smiled.

All Belle could see was the brown of his eyes, the gold in his eyelashes as he blinked slowly. 

“Why?” he asked, more breath than voice in the word.

“‘Why?’” Belle echoed, honestly confused by the question. “Did I need a reason?”

A smile spread across his lips, a flush blooming over his face and neck. 

He had to gather the bravery for it - she’d kissed him, couldn’t he kiss her in return? - but he went in for a second. He moved more slowly than she did, giving her time to pull away if she didn’t want him to. It was Belle who closed the last half inch between them again. She slid her hands from his face to his neck, and around to bury her fingers in his hair. 

Belle gave the center of his upper lip a touch with her tongue, hoping that he understood she asked for entrance. He granted it immediately, opening to her.

The tip of her tongue grazed behind his front teeth, and _God,_ he thought he might die then and there. He wasn’t entirely certain he hadn’t already.

He let his hands fall to her lap, resting on her thighs. She felt his fingers flex against her through her dress, and she knew what _that_ feeling was without agonizing over it - the warmth gathering low in her belly, _wanting._


	54. The Secret of All Triumphs

Not entirely on purpose, Belle found herself outside of Dr. Hopper’s office. She’d been busy with preparing a strong cup of quinine water for Corporal Reyes when Graham came in to fetch Rummond away to his appointment, and with her first off-ward task afterward, she drifted toward the hospital’s west wing.

She was met with a questioning look from her friend and an, “All right?” when she began pacing in front of him where he sat.

“More than,” Belle said with a smile as she turned to walk back the opposite way again. The soles of her shoes were quiet, at least. She wouldn’t risk intruding on Rummond’s appointment by clicking her way up and down the corridor.

She hadn’t told a single soul. Thus far, she and Rummond being, well, she _and_ Rummond was still between the two of them. They were both well aware that it was a sensitive thing - something to be very careful speaking of to anyone just yet. But there was talking about it, and then there were confidences. She knew from experience that there were some confidences that provided protection. What she knew of Graham’s domestic life, as per illustration.

Graham checked his watch to make sure of how much session was left for Captain Gold. His estimate was accurate, but staring at Belle until the lid came off whatever she itched to say wouldn’t help her. She’d been floating around the ward for the better part of a week, and the last three days in particular. She seemed happier than Graham thought he’d ever seen her, and he had a suspicion that her pacing would lead to him finally finding out about it sooner rather than later. Her face looked as if she recited something to herself.

Captain Gold had been in for fifteen minutes when at last she burst.

“I kissed him,” she said. One hand came up to cover her mouth, and she looked at Graham over it. 

She’d had a bit of an explanation in her head. She meant to tell him how she’d been dying for _something_ when she was around Rummond for months and hadn’t understood, how she’d stumbled across it, how it hadn’t been planned, exactly…

Graham looked at her, eyebrows lifted in question. “Who?”

Belle gave him a wider-eyed look.

She saw the second it occurred to him, his own eyes going a bit wide, and he lowered his voice. “Captain Gold?”

She nodded, turning to walk a couple of yards back the other way again.

“Belle!”

Well, didn’t that explain Captain Gold practically walking on air? He really should have caught onto that. If he’d been getting more sleep, or been sleeping in his own bed, Graham decided, he might’ve.

He waited until she was on her way toward him again before asking, “When?”

“Wednesday morning.”

“When the ward turned itself upside-down.”

“I waited until it calmed,” she said a little defensively. She wouldn’t have left everything in chaos. “Rummond needed to leave the ward for a while. I followed later.”

Graham watched her, and she realized after a few moments that he waited for her to go on. She felt suddenly uncomfortable with the entire explanation she’d come up with.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Every time I looked at him. I wanted to, _so badly.”_ She stopped pacing, looking at Graham as she fished a peppermint from her apron. “We were talking, and it sort of- sort of overflowed.”

“And you held out for…?”

Belle smiled sheepishly. She wasn’t ashamed of their kisses in the storage room - not by any means. But Graham had known her long enough to know how she had a _small_ problem with impulsiveness.

“Three days,” she said, and he snorted softly. “And a half.”

He snorted a bit louder, chuckling. “That’s… good. You didn’t accost him as soon as it crossed your mind.”

“I didn’t ‘accost’ him at all.” She stuck her tongue out at Graham, sitting down next to him.

“Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?”

“Did you mean the kiss?”

“Of course I meant it. I wanted it more than my next breath.” Belle fiddled with the candy wrapper, folding the paper into ever smaller squares. “I lo-” She rolled her tongue back over her palate, closing her mouth. She hadn’t said the words to Rummond yet; she wouldn’t declare it first to someone else.

Graham grinned, though, as if he could read her mind. He sighed, crossing his arms, and slouched a bit on the bench with his legs stretching across the greater width of the hall. “Belle…”

“I know. Be careful, don’t be obvious, don’t do something that could be a detriment to his recovery or get myself into trouble.” She’d given such a talk to nurses in similar situations, herself.

“For _both_ your sakes,” he told her in gentle warning. “You could both be hurt in this.”

“I’m not asking for cautionary tales, Graham. I wanted to tell you so that someone I trust with the knowledge would have it. Just in case.”

He nodded. “I understand. I do. And you know I’ll help with anything, if you need. I only want you to be aware, too.”

“I am very aware,” she assured him. “Certain conniving, political individuals in this hospital, I couldn’t not be aware.”

Graham looked sidelong at her. “Does she know?” 

“Not for certain. Long before there was anything to point a finger at, she was accusing.” Belle narrowed her eyes at the wall across from her. “In the most ridiculous ways.”

“Just you mind and be careful of her.”

“Always.” Belle bumped his knee with the back of her hand. “If you want to go and do something else, I’ll wait for Rummond and walk him back.”

“Oh, you will, will you?” His smile returned, and she was glad to see it. Getting into Nurse Mills’ behavior was never the best of ideas, if Graham was to have a good day. “All right. I can find trouble to get into. Or chores.” 

Graham reeled his legs back in and stood, nudging the toe of her shoe with his own before he went. “Have fun.”

Dr. Hopper had expected the usual quiet entrance from Captain Gold. His patient would cross to the bookcase for the pocketwatch he’d brought in from the ward to repair during sessions, take his seat on the sofa, and after a few moments taken to get everything in order, they would begin. As soon as he came into the office this morning, though, the doctor had a feeling that he was in for an unusual appointment. For one thing, his patient hadn’t brought the case of watchmaking tools along.

He seemed in fine spirits. Dr. Hopper might even have called him _happy_. He’d noticed a weight lifting from Captain Gold after his son was returned to him. During the previous session, they’d talked at length about Neal - that the boy was staying with Nurse French for the duration of his hospital admittal, how his son was faring in the environment, a few behavioral quirks that had surfaced. But this appeared to be something more.

“I feel better…” Rummond began as soon as the door was closed. He turned as the doctor went back to his desk. “Not a nightmare in _days,_ not a hallucination. I’ve been eating. Sleeping a bit.” 

Dr. Hopper lowered into his chair, well aware that the Captain was building a case for himself. He gestured for Captain Gold to have a seat, and his patient took one of the chairs right in front of the desk. 

Captain Gold took a deep breath. “I was thinking, perhaps it might be time for my release.”

Well, his talking points for the typically reticent man were entirely out the window, it seemed. He’d hoped to harness the Captain’s good mood for other discussion. But it was to be one of those days.

Dr. Hopper gave him a smile. He’d been afraid of this. It happened at one time or another with most patients, and while he wished that it were what Captain Gold believed it to be - a cure - it was only a matter of time before he realized that it wasn’t. 

“Is this about your son?” the doctor asked.

“Yes… and no. Not entirely, but in part.” Captain Gold began to fidget a little along with the vacillating answer.

“What is the other part? If I may ask.”

Rummond hesitated. He was unsure whether telling the doctor about Belle - about how things had _changed_ with Belle - was a wise idea. It could be a precarious situation for a nurse. Dr. Hopper was nothing if not trustworthy, though. And he knew that Belle trusted the man implicitly.

“Someone,” Rummond said. “The other part is someone else.”

“Someone you’ve developed feelings for?” the doctor encouraged.

“Belle.” Upon saying her name, he couldn’t keep the smile from his face.

“Captain, I’m happy for you and- and Nurse French,” Dr. Hopper said, returning his patient’s smile. He pushed his slipping glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. This sort of conversation was never an easy one to have. “It’s an important thing, being and feeling cared for. It can often relieve the stress of what you’re suffering, to some degree. The depression part of your condition has hit an upswing. The anxiety you feel seems to be in a lull. I know that your shell shock seems as if it’s perfectly manageable in this moment. My last intention is to damage your happiness here… But Captain, this upswing isn’t permanent. It’s a relief of your symptoms, and it _could_ very well mean progress, but it doesn’t mean you’ve healed enough to be released.”

“If I could only try,” Rummond pled, sitting forward. “Give me my walking papers. Let me _try_. If it recurs, I could simply come back.”

The doctor shook his head slowly, projecting as much sympathy as he could for the Captain’s wishes. He was afraid of what might happen if Captain Gold hit such a downswing as he had in late August while alone. That particular instance had been more severe even than the one that made him seek treatment in the first place. He’d admitted as much in session before. His most recent episode with hallucinations had been severe enough that it took him completely out of reality. Chances were too high that Captain Gold might succumb via starvation or stress to his heart as result of insomnia, or actively seek to end his life by more direct means. Dr. Hopper wouldn’t risk it.

“No,” the doctor said with as much certainty in his voice as he could, and yet followed it with, “I’m sorry.”

Rummond’s smile dropped away almost completely, and his expression hardened. “You can’t keep me here by force.”

Dr. Hopper shook his head again. “You’re quite right. I can’t. The administrator, however, can. And he actually heeds my advice, when it comes to discharging from the east ward.”

Face falling, Rummond sat back. 

“Please understand, I’m not doing this to be cruel,” the doctor entreated. “If I saw that you were ready to be discharged, I assure you, I would lead the assault on the paperwork. My goal is to release you when you are stable for the long term - stable enough to take care of yourself _and_ your son.” It was perhaps a low tactic, bringing Captain Gold’s son into his reasoning, but there was truth to what the doctor told him. “There would be no benefit in releasing you in a state vulnerable enough that it could cause you even further harm.”

The Captain looked down at his hands, quiet for a few moments. Something he’d said struck the right place, and Dr. Hopper sighed in relief that he might have avoided a greater fight over this.

“You believe this is a- a- a false feeling, then? That it’ll pass?” The thought frightened Rummond, that his emotions surrounding what he and Belle were beginning - what he _hoped_ they were beginning - could dissipate as easily as the doctor seemed to think.

“That isn’t what I mean at all.” Dr. Hopper gave him a reassuring smile. “I don’t wish to dampen your spirits. Not in the least. I truly am glad that you feel so well. Captain, there is a great deal to be said for love in healing. The provision of love and support, and feeling those things as they’re provided, it can be a wonderful bedrock to lay beneath recovery.”

“But?” Rummond prompted when the doctor stopped.

Dr. Hopper was a bit surprised with the raptness of Captain Gold’s attention. It was perhaps the closest attention he’d seen this particular patient give him. It wasn’t something he’d expected out of this, but he would take it.

“You must build on that bedrock for yourself. What I believe is this: having your son back in your custody and feeling that concern lift, as well as discovering what’s developed between yourself and Nurse French, it’s fit together to bolster an upswing in your mood that was impending, following the very bad time you’d just experienced before them. That doesn’t mean the feelings aren’t real. Your joy in your son’s situation beginning to resolve, and the feelings you have for Nurse French, they are all quite legitimate. _All_ of your emotions are. My only concern is that I don’t want you to depend wholly on those feelings to carry you through every step of your healing from this moment onward. Neither your son nor Nurse French can heal for you the things you’ve been through. That part is yours.”

Captain Gold seemed to take in everything he said, sitting quietly with it for a while.

“You think I could?” Rummond asked, his voice smaller. “Take care of my boy, I mean? On my own?”

Dr. Hopper smiled. “I’m quite certain, yes. But it will take time to get there.”

Rummond had come into the office with the determination that he would be going home - wherever that was, now - within days. One hope had been dashed, but another fed. “What can I do? To- to move things along, to heal more quickly?”

“Precisely what you’re doing.” The doctor’s smile broadened, encouraging. “Everything we've been doing here has been in the direction of that goal. It takes a bit of patience.”

“I thought I had patience. It wears thin, months of this with so little to show for it.”

“You have a great deal to show for it,” Dr. Hopper assured him. “You’ve learned what’s taking place when you have these episodes, and you’re finding ways to fight back. You _are_ healing.”

“I don’t see it. I don’t see the healing you claim is happening.” Rummond shook his head. “Outside of the past week, if it all floods back in as you say it will, I still see things that aren’t there. I still hardly eat or sleep. How is that healing?”

He would need to keep an eye on that, the doctor realized, the possibility of Captain Gold growing discouraged with the knowledge during a good time that worse might come around again. He made a quick note in the corner of the page of the Captain’s file that faced him. “Recognizing symptoms doesn’t mean that you’re getting worse, or even that you’ve remained stagnant. If anything, being able to see those symptoms and brace for them is significant progress.”

It seemed to Rummond that it was such a _slow_ progress, though. “My leg, my ribs, they healed well enough. I can function with them, at least.”

Dr. Hopper heard the question lingering beneath his patient’s remarks. “The body heals itself handily. The mind, however… It’s far more complex, and often takes a great deal more time to heal.”

“More pain, as well,” Captain Gold muttered.

“Oftentimes, yes. And frustrating, as there’s little yet to be done about this manner of pain.”

“Being forced into a drugged sleep is unhelpful,” Rummond said, frowning as he recalled one of Nurse Mills’ and the orderlies’ solutions to patients becoming ‘too’ overwrought. 

“Heartily agreed. Unfortunately, there are some things practiced on the east ward that I cannot control.” Dr. Hopper shook his head a little, clearing his thoughts. The Captain had come in with a good mood. He didn’t want to send him back to the ward having tossed a wet blanket over his patient. “Tell me, Captain, have you any plans for when you _do_ leave the hospital?”

“Plans?” Rummond blinked, looking up at the doctor. 

“Things you wish to do, what you’re looking toward?” Dr. Hopper clarified. “What you hope for?”

For a moment, Rummond was startled. He _did_ have hopes for things. He hadn’t allowed himself hope for such a long time… 

“Neal,” he said. “I want to make a home for him. I want to be able to provide for him, for stability, for both of us.”

“What else?” the doctor asked with a smile.

“I want to keep him in the school he’s attending, if it turns out he enjoys himself there. If possible, I want to acquire a new home for us. I don’t want to take him back to the old one.” He wasn’t sure whether Neal would feel any associations with the house where they’d all been a family together, but he didn’t want to go back there, himself. Not if it could be at all avoided.

“Is that all?”

Rummond considered, and he nodded. “For now.”

He was a bit terrified to project hopes onto Belle’s presence in his life just yet. He couldn’t give them voice. It was new, and lovely, and he feared how rapidly all of his eggs were tumbling into that particular basket. If he thought for too long on the possibilities and the way such things in his past had tended to go, it gave his stomach a sensation as if his plane had lost too much altitude too quickly.

Something must have eked into his expression with his thoughts, because the next thing Rummond knew, the doctor was asking, “Is there something else you feel the need to talk about?”

His fingers rolled together more frantically as he grew more uncomfortable with sitting so near. This was why he’d always chosen a seat on the furthest piece of furniture from the doctor. It gave him a sense of distance, space to think, illusion though it was.

“I worry that-” he began, and his own insecurity choked him.

Dr. Hopper waited, not pushing this in particular. Captain Gold’s discomfort was palpable. He moved his attention to the papers in front of him, so that he didn’t pin his patient down under scrutiny.

“Belle has an enormous heart,” Rummond said softly, words coming with slow purpose. “You can see it in everything she does. She’s kind to everyone under her care. Protective. I worry… What if she’s being affectionate from a place of pity?”

“Nurse French is a friend. I daresay I know her fairly well. Your observations are on point,” Dr. Hopper agreed, and he paused long enough that Captain Gold looked up. “But for what it’s worth, I’ve never seen her so attached to a patient. She’s certainly never before taken in a patient’s child.”

Rummond shifted in the chair. For all that he’d brought it up, he wasn’t sure how Dr. Hopper could know.

“She isn’t one to do something like giving affection out of pity,” the doctor told him more seriously. “Particularly not of the variety I assume has begun to occur between you. I would suggest you speak with her, though. Outside perspectives are fine, but I don’t think it’s a wild guess to suggest that you might feel more comforted in hearing it from _her.”_

Dr. Hopper glanced subtly past the Captain’s arm to the table clock. 

“Near the end of the appointment?” Captain Gold asked, and Dr. Hopper found he’d clearly not been as subtle as he’d thought.

“I don’t mean at all to hurry you,” he said. “If there’s something more we need to talk about-”

“Not necessary. Not today.” Rummond gave a small, dismissive wave of his hand. He took his cane from where he’d hooked it on the arm of the chair, putting the greater part of his weight on his left foot to stand. “Do you know, I’ve nearly finished that book.” 

“The one you’d mentioned that Lieutenant Hargreaves lent?”

Rummond nodded, a proud smile turning up one corner of his mouth just a bit. “Spanned four months, slogging through the first half. Got through the rest in a week. How’s that for an upswing?”

The doctor smiled. “That’s wonderful, Captain.”

“I’m not counting on holding onto such concentration,” he said, knowing that he could be realistic in this, at least. “It was nice to read more than a few sentences at a go, though.”

Dr. Hopper escorted him to the door, opening it ahead of him. Rummond meant to go on down the corridor a bit, to give the doctor and Humbert a moment to talk, but there was no orderly there.

“Belle?” Seeing her in Humbert’s usual place on the bench, he wondered whether something had happened.

Before he could get another syllable past his lips, she was on her feet and heading his next question off at the pass. “Nothing is wrong,” she said as she laced her hands in front of her, smiling. “I thought I’d be your chaperone on the return trip this morning.”

Dr. Hopper gave her a nod, and he stepped back into his office.

They made a slow way back down the corridor, in no great hurry to return to the ward. Returning from his appointment was as good an excuse as any to spend a spare few minutes in only one another’s company.

The concern he’d expressed to Dr. Hopper, as well as the doctor’s advice afterward, itched under his skin to be spoken. For _once,_ instead of holding onto it for weeks and letting it chafe and blister him inside, he steeled himself and spoke. 

“I don’t want to be pitied,” he said, awkward and quiet and without preamble.

Belle looked to him, her brow drawn, and she’d given him a surprised, “What?” before she knew it.

“I don’t want to be pitied. I don’t want _you_ to- to-” He shook his head, well-nigh begging her. He’d never felt like more than a burden to anyone, and he didn’t want to be a burden to _her,_ of all people. “Don’t do this out of pity.”

“Rummond, we’ve discussed this,” she reminded gently. “I explained.”

He looked away, down at his cane, following the rhythm of it preceding his footsteps. “It isn’t about that. I understand where I’d misheard. This is…” The corner of his mouth pulled into an unsettled frown. “You and I, in this. If any part of it is about pity of some sort, I-”

He’d been so cheerful before his appointment, and his demeanor now had her wondering what they’d delved into that could have caused such a response.

Belle reached over, touching his back. She stopped in the middle of the hallway, knowing he would stop with her. It was a slightly different verse of the same song, but if he needed to hear it again, then she’d say it again.

“Rummond, I don’t pity you. I sympathize with you, with what you’ve been through,” she said, turning to face him. She lifted a hand to touch his hair when he didn’t look at her, brushing a piece back, and told him softly, “I hate that you hurt the way you do. But whatever it is that you see in me when I look at you, it is _not_ pity.”

Rummond raised his eyes to hers, finding so much sincerity there, a lump formed in his throat. He had to swallow over it twice before he could at last say anything more.

“You’re certain?” he asked, nodding, willing himself to believe it.

Belle looked around to make sure they weren’t about to be interrupted, and curled a hand at the back of his arm. She tugged him so that he faced her, as well, and telegraphed her intent with an upturned face and parted lips. Laying her hands on his shoulders, she went up on her toes to kiss him.

He raised the hand not occupied with his cane to rest at her waist, doing his best not to pull her against him, the way he ached to. His eyes closed as her lips brushed over his once before she kissed him more soundly. Her intensity drew him in and clouded his doubts with need of her.

She smiled, briefly touching her forehead to his before lowering from her tiptoes. “Ask me again how certain I am.”


	55. In the Dew of Little Things

“Did you know Nurse Belle has a garden?” Neal whispered with delight, quite impressed with the fact of it. “All the way across the back of her house. It’s _so big._ Bigger than ours.”

Rummond recalled very well the little lawn at the front of the house their family had lived in, though he was surprised that his son remembered. It was a swatch of grass not much bigger than the dining table, and too near the street for him to feel comfortable with Neal playing there alone. Of course a garden of any size would appeal to the boy.

“Does she, now?” he encouraged. He’d seen the drawing that his son had made of it, but this was the first time Neal mentioned it for himself.

“Mmhm. There’s flowers and trees. Mrs. Potts grows herbs by the wall. She let me help cut some par- parls…” Neal concentrated, the word coming out slow, a turn of his Papa’s accent in the middle.

“Parsley?” his father suggested.

“And mint, and rosemary,” he said, then lowered his voice as if he told an important secret. “I pick rosemary off the meat, though. It tastes like trees smell.”

Rummond snickered softly. “As long as you’re polite about it.”

“And there’s lizards. Wee tiny ones.” He measured the size on his palm. “They’re brown and green, and sort of gold in the sun. Mrs. Potts won’t let me keep one in the house. Or bring one to show you.” Neal twisted his mouth up in disappointment at that. “I’ll ’member to draw you one, though.”

“I look very forward to seeing it.” He gave his son a commiserating smile. 

Neal played with the silky lapels of his father’s robe, flapping them back and forth as he rambled cheerfully about Belle’s house and life within it. He’d been sleepy for much of the morning, and only after lunch did he seem to be perking up. Belle had quietly mentioned that he’d complained of a bad dream, but he hadn’t spoken of its content.

“There’s a bird in one of the trees, too. Nurse Belle’s Papa says it’s a kestrel. Mrs. Potts says it ought to be flying south by now, but it’s dragging its feet.” 

Before Rummond could respond, Neal threw his arms wide and his head back. In the next second, he dropped himself forward into his Papa’s chest, snuggling in when his father’s arms wrapped around him.

Neal had been more talkative today, and though Rummond didn’t draw attention, he was glad of it. As the little boy’s sugar-sustained energy from the three slices of raspberry jam Swiss roll that Belle brought to go with lunch ran out, he quieted. What began as leaning against Rummond’s pillow to sort cards into suits ended with Neal curled around it, tucked safely between the headboard of the bunk and his Papa.

Belle had stepped away from them in the late afternoon to clock in, while her little charge was at the height of his activeness. She couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face every time she glanced over to find the two of them playing, or talking, or Rummond simply _looking_ at her.

She knew that David had come in to visit when his daughter came running onto the ward, a call of her name sneaking in before the door closed behind her. Emma made a skidding stop by Belle, knowing how she kept sweets in her pocket.

“Nurse French,” Emma said, full of exaggerated sweetness.

“Why, hello,” Belle greeted her with a bit of overdone formality and a grin. “And how are you today?”

David came through the door a moment later, giving Belle a short greeting before he made a beeline for his wife. She could hear them squabbling, and she was certain that the greater part of the ward could hear, as well.

“I’m busy, David!” Mary Margaret said, dropping her hands to her sides in irritation. “Regina has me all over the hospital today. I can’t simply stop in the middle of everything.”

David didn’t roll his eyes, but Belle could see the exasperation all over his face. _“Regina._ You do realize you spend more time with _Regina_ than you spend with your daughter?”

“Oh, now _that_ isn’t true,” she said even as she cast nervously around for the head nurse. 

He gave her a level look. “Emma woke up this morning asking if she’d see you today. Not _when,_ Mary Margaret. _If.”_

Emma flashed blue eyes up at Belle, round face haloed by blonde curls. The little girl asked with a lisp she was quickly growing out of, “Do you still have candy?”

Belle pretended to think very hard. “You know, I don’t recall whether I put any in my apron this morning.”

An expression of unease crossed Mary Margaret’s face as she looked over at her daughter. “Regina needs my help,” she said, though with more hesitation. “Her sister isn’t doing well, and she needs the assistance. She’ll be leaving early this evening. I have to be here to take care of things.”

Emma beamed and went for Belle’s apron pocket, arm disappearing nearly to her elbow, and she came out with a piece of candy wrapped in pink paraffin paper.

“Oh, no!” Belle teased, pretending to reach for it. “That’s my last bit of taffy!”

“Mine!” Emma shrieked a giggle, and she ran off at full speed toward her mother.

David shook his head, glancing down as his wife rested a hand at the back of Emma curls. “You don’t see how it’s always something with that woman?”

“‘That woman’ says I might get head nurse when she moves up. Just… go find a place to sit with Em? I’ll come by when I can.”

“She’s not going to be content to sit around.”

Mary Margaret bent down, taking the little girl’s face in her hands and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She eased her daughter toward David, and he took Emma’s hand. “There are other children around today. See if she might play with one of them. It might be good for her,” she said, and she headed toward the doors.

Emma strained to follow, but she was held fast by her father’s hand. “Hey, she’ll be back,” he promised. “Do you remember when I told you about flying?”

“In a plane?” she garbled around her piece of taffy.

“That’s right. You remember how I told you about someone called Captain Gold?” he asked, and Emma nodded. “How about we go and meet him?”

Belle had to leave the ward for a moment to fetch aspirin for Lieutenant Hargreaves, and when she returned, David had brought a chair to Rummond’s bedside. He sat with his daughter perched on one knee. With great curiosity, Emma watched the boy who slept nearby.

Rummond and David didn’t seem to talk of anything very serious. Belle found excuses to stay nearby, both to satisfy her own nosiness in hearing what was said as well as to make sure that Rummond was all right. David was kind, but he could also be boisterous, and he sometimes didn’t exercise the best judgment in regards to which war stories were appropriate in sensitive situations. She performed any off-ward tasks quick as a hare so that she could get back to pottering around her section of beds.

“I bought a little plane of my own a few months back,” David said, reaching up to take Emma’s hand away from her mouth as she pulled a string of taffy from it with her fingers. “Found a Jenny another American squadron left behind, all broken down. She was in such bad shape, I got her for a pittance. Still repairing her, but she’ll be a good machine before too long.”

Rummond smiled at the younger man’s enthusiasm. “I thought about something akin while I was still flying. Lot of planes were being discarded as too costly to repair, and then not worth the move when we had to pick up and relocate. Hate to think how many languish out there.” He shook his head. “That was a long time ago, though. Not sure I’ll ever fly again.”

He smiled, but the thought of having a plane he could take to the sky in whenever he liked was a bittersweet one that pulled in a hundred different directions. It was the flying part of the RFC he’d fallen in love with. The planes were the reason he’d volunteered for training in the Corps in the first place. And loving it as he did was the very reason he’d never give such back to himself. Not after his squadron, not after Germany. He hadn’t been in a plane since, and he never would again.

“I wouldn’t say that.” David shook his head and grinned. “You never know. I can’t imagine not ever being in a cockpit again.”

Emma grew quickly bored. The grown-ups were talking things that didn’t interest her. The boy who _had_ drawn her interest wasn’t yet budging, and she couldn’t sit and wait forever for him to wake. She began to squirm, and her father turned her straight on his knee again before she could tip over. She huffed.

“I want to go play with Grace. _Daddy,”_ she said plaintively when he didn’t give her his immediate attention. “Daddy. I want to play with Grace.”

“All right, go on. Behave yourself, or you’ll be right back over here,” he told her, setting her on her feet. She took off around to where Jefferson’s family sat, and tugged at Grace’s sleeve.

“You must have some great stories. I know good and well you got up to plenty in your years in the air,” David encouraged, hoping to get a tale out of him.

Rummond was quiet for a moment too long, and Belle was ready to step in and offer an excuse to cut the visit short when he nodded.

“There was the once I got caught out after dark…”

David’s eyebrows rose toward his hairline. “That sounds like the beginning to an interesting night.”

“I’d gone up alone for my own entertainment.” Rummond shrugged as if it hadn’t been a serious situation. “Hadn’t intended to stay out so long. Lost track of time, and it was already getting dark on my way back to camp. I was still thirty miles out when it got pitch black on me.”

Belle walked over to stand at the end of Rummond’s footlocker, more or less behind him, so that she could listen without distracting him. She’d never heard him regale anything from wartime that actually put a smile on his face, but here he was. 

Scooting a couple of inches nearer the edge of his chair, David leaned to rest his forearms on his knees. “We were always warned to be home before we couldn’t see where we were going.”

Rummond chuckled shortly. “Aye, for good reason. Oh, I flew by compass, and I’d already got my course set, but there was wind to be corrected for. Stronger, the later it got. Knew it’d send me veering off along with it.”

David’s eyes grew wider, as if he were a boy listening to some frightening yarn spun by a campfire, and Belle grinned.

“I remembered I had a book of matches in my jacket pocket.” Rummond snapped his fingers. “Felt along the heads, and there were naught but fifteen left. I figured up I could strike one every couple of minutes to check the compass by. I’d strike a match, look at the compass in the flare to correct course, the match would blow out, and I’d count seconds. Every two or three minutes, I repeated it. I finally saw the lights of camp, and I knew at least I’d gotten back in one piece.”

Belle saw as David released a held breath, and he smiled. “You made it back just fine?” he asked.

“Perfectly all right. Staying that way was the question, knowing my commanding officer. I landed in the field out behind the camp, and sure enough. I jumped down and got my goggles off, and there was Sergeant-Major Enna there waiting for me. He was plenty angry and did plenty blessing out. But in the end, he grinned and clapped me on the back and sent me in to get dinner before the mess tent was cleared up.”

“You weren’t punished?” David asked in disbelief. “My commanding officer would have had my hide.”

Rummond smirked a little and shook his head. “Should have been. It was fair early on - a firm hand might’ve kept me out of some trouble. Doubtful, but might’ve.”

It wasn’t until later on that he’d discovered Enna had given him as positive a reception as he had because the Sergeant-Major had a use for what he’d done. He’d never been a night fighter - not really. But having the knowledge under his belt that he _could_ go up and successfully return home after full dark had come in handy more than once.

David sighed and sat back, a broad grin plastered across his face. “Let me tell you one that got me three days worth of grounding.”

Commander Strand called for Belle, and she went over. Much as it made her happy to see Rummond enjoying himself and making a friend, duties were duties. 

At one point during David’s story, he leapt to his feet, gesturing high and startling Rummond. Belle stopped to watch, protectiveness making her keep him in her peripheral vision, at the very least. Rummond’s smile returned after a moment - hesitantly at first, then a little surer. Still standing, David swooped his hands in what was presumably an illustration of some manner of aerobatics. Belle had to press her lips together to hold back a laugh at the sight.

A small knee bumped Rummond’s hip, and he found his son waking. Neal made a soft grumbling sound and sat up, still for a while as he regained his bearings. He reached up to rub his cheek where he’d lain on the pillow, and leaned against his father.

“I need the washroom,” he mumbled quietly.

Looking into his sleepy face, his Papa tenderly brushed hair away from his eyes. “All right. Be sure to wash your hands.”

Neal slid down from the bunk, colliding gently with his father’s legs as he went past.

On his way back, he and Emma quite literally ran into one another. Not looking, she barrelled into him, taking them both to the floor. Neal looked at her in shock, which turned immediately to distress as Emma’s lip began to quiver.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he gushed in apologies, scrambling to his knees nearer to her. He pulled one of Nurse Belle’s peppermints from his trouser pocket, holding it out in hopes of comforting her.

She snubbed and sniffled a little, but reached to take it. “Who are you?” she asked, popping the piece of candy into her mouth right away.

“Neal Gold. That’s my Papa, over there.” He pointed back across the ward.

“I’m Emma. I saw you sleeping. That’s my Daddy with your Papa. My Daddy’s a _pilot,”_ she said proudly, turning onto her hands and knees before getting to her feet.

He smiled, a little unsure of her. “So is mine,” he told her, standing as she did.

She dusted her knees off, and Neal looked at her shoes. They were scuffed, though not scuffed in the way his were before Nurse Belle got him some new ones. Hers were _new_ scuffed, shiny around the scrapes in the patent leather.

“Mine’s better,” she declared.

Neal’s smile dropped away, and he felt suddenly defensive of his Papa. “Is not,” he said, quiet but resolute.

Emma scowled at him. “Is, too!” she snapped, turning to run to the man who sat with his Papa before he could answer.

“Hi!” Emma chirped.

David paused in his story, noticing that she had something in her mouth again. “Did you go bothering Belle for more candy?”

Emma shook her head, pointing as Neal made his way back. “He gave it to me.” She looked over at Rummond and said again, “Hi!”

“Hello, there.” Rummond smiled, thinking of Neal at that age. Barely two years ago, it would have been. David and Nurse Nolan’s little girl was rambunctious and free with smiles, just as Neal was. The way he was learning how to be again.

Emma leaned on her father’s leg, one of her feet kicked up behind her as she tried to see how far she could overbalance herself before he would catch her. Edging back in, Neal went to stand between his Papa’s knees, watching her curiously. Rummond wrapped his arms loosely around Neal, and Neal leaned back against his father, into the comfort and certainty.

“Neal,” his Papa said, “This is Emma and her father, Corporal David Nolan. Emma, Corporal, this is my son, Neal.”

“I know,” Emma said. She looked up at Rummond, asking before her father had a chance to respond, “What are you doing here? Are you hurt?”

David looked at her, caught up short. “Emma Ruth, that’s impolite.”

Rummond shook his head. “No, no, it’s all right,” he said, and answered her. “I suppose I am, in a way.”

Not letting go of her father, Emma stretched to pat one of Rummond’s hands. “I hope you get better soon,” she wished him.

Nurse Nolan came back onto the ward, arms looped around a pair of pillows. Emma saw her go past on the other side of the room, and she dropped her feet to the floor with a _clack_ of her heels. She wiggled a finger at her father in a gesture that was clearly meant to beckon him down to her. When he obliged, she gave him a smacking kiss on the cheek before rocketing off.

“She’s a lovely girl,” Rummond observed. He gave Neal a squeeze as his son leaned against him more heavily.

“I was hoping for a boy,” David admitted, watching with a grin as she ran pell-mell toward her mother. Mary Margaret staggered a bit, taken by surprise when the little girl collided with her from behind. “Couldn’t imagine anything else now, though. Pretty sure I got the best of both worlds in that one.”

Neal turned to look at her around his father, not quite sure what to do when she smiled sweetly back at him.


	56. What is Behind Him

Rummond closed the cover of his book, holding it between his hands. Such slow going, it hadn’t seemed as if he would _ever_ be done with the thing. And now that he’d finished, with a miracle of two chapters on two consecutive days, he felt… a bit bereft. As if he’d lost some small companion.

He turned to sit up on the side of his bunk, facing Lieutenant Hargreaves, who seemed to be engrossed in reading of his own. Waiting for a moment to see whether the Lieutenant would look up, Rummond watched as the man turned pages three times, a fingertip tracking his quick progress through. With a ridiculous twinge of envy, his consideration for Hargreaves’ attention span waned.

“Lieutenant?”

Hargreaves responded with only a, “Hm?”

Rummond turned the book in his hands. “I’ve done with it.”

“Oh,” said the Lieutenant, looking over with a smile. “Have you really?”

“Not five minutes ago.”

Jefferson nodded in approval. He knew the trouble Captain Gold had been having with his concentration, and at last finishing the book must have been a bit of a triumph. “How did you like it?”

“I enjoyed it very much. A good ending.” Rummond held the book out to him.

Hargreaves gestured to wave him off. “I meant it, when I said you could keep it.” 

“I know.” Rummond smiled, shaking his head. “But that isn’t necessary.”

Jefferson shrugged and stretched to meet him halfway, taking the book and placing it on his bedside table. The stack it topped gave a wobble that he paid no mind to.

“I wondered if I might borrow another?”

“Sure, have at them.” The Lieutenant tilted his head toward the table. “Take your pick.”

Rummond stood, resisting the idea of taking his cane for the two steps over. He leaned to look, turning the books in their haphazard piles with care that he didn’t topple them as he looked at the titles.

Finally, he eased one from between a few above and below. It was heavy, bound in green fabric and gilt lettering, a great flowery teardrop embossed on the front. It was perhaps too ambitious, the thick tome, but the name that served as its title fed on his fascination for other peoples’ lives.

He held it up. “This one?”

Jefferson, nose and fingers back in his own book, barely glanced up. “Mm. Take it.”

Rummond went back to his bunk with the book and full intention of leaving Hargreaves alone. A morbid and fearful curiosity had been poking at him for the weeks since Lieutenant Hargreaves had returned, and he’d tamped it down. He wanted to know, though. Needed to. Wouldn’t anyone in such a situation - in danger of being released only to have to put oneself back on the ward a bare fortnight later?

“Lieutenant-” he began.

“For God’s sake, call me Jefferson. It’s the least you can do, as you’re reading my books.” The Lieutenant shot a grin across the space between their bunks, and Rummond almost backed down.

“Jefferson…” He set the book on the blanket next to him. “What happened? May I ask? What happened that made you come back here?”

For a moment, Jefferson looked taken aback, and Rummond wished that he hadn’t brought it up so abruptly. Or at all. When emotion flooded into the Lieutenant’s face again, he choked back on a short, hysterical laugh.

“I, ah- I caused a _scene.”_ Jefferson closed his book with a sharp clap. “My wife and daughter and I were invited to a large business luncheon by my wife’s father. All of his cronies’ families were in attendance. It was more for bragging rights than anything truly business-related, trotting the children and grandchildren out. I thought I was doing well enough to go, and if I hadn’t gone, then Alice and Grace wouldn’t. I thought I was all right,” he mumbled.

Rummond waited. The look on the Lieutenant’s face, he couldn’t bring himself to prod at the man again.

“Seemed like everything started stacking up as soon as we left the house. There was a car ahead of us on the way, belching fumes. It smelled _just_ like mortar fire.” Jefferson shook his head slowly, his frown twisting up small as he saw the moment it all went badly over again. “A waiter dropped his tray next to our table, right behind Grace. It was a, ah- a beef Wellington. We hadn’t had a meal so fine in longer than I can remember. Grace screamed. The _maître d’_ came over, apologizing. The waiter started cleaning up the mess, picked up the carving knife… I didn’t know I had him on the floor ’til my father-in-law was pulling at the back of my jacket and I had the knife under the waiter’s jaw.”

He looked over at Rummond, shrugging. “One of the other men there took the knife out of my hand and my father-in-law hauled me up. I looked and Grace was crying, my chair was flipped over backward. We were escorted out, threatened with police being called.” Jefferson took a breath, blowing it out again with puffed cheeks. “Alice and I had a talk. Not as long a one as you might think. She didn’t _want_ me to come back. Hell, neither did I. Knew I had to, though. I couldn’t keep doing that to them.”

“I’m sorry that you ended up back here,” Rummond said when he was certain that the Lieutenant had finished.

“Yeah.” Jefferson tossed his book toward the foot of his bunk, and he fell back onto the mattress. “Me, too.”

Feeling guilty for having ruined Jefferson’s good mood, Rummond turned to pull his legs up on his bunk again. He paged through the first few leaves of his newly borrowed story to get to ‘Part One.’

A single line did he get read before Humbert loomed cheerfully at his bedside. “Captain-”

“Appointment,” Rummond sighed. He marked his place with the curl-edged slip of paper that had been serving as his bookmark, and he set his book aside.

The watch he pulled from his drawer to take along was Commander Strand’s. It was only a bit slow, a quick repair, but he was waiting for the parts for Reyes’ watch to come in the post, and the pocketwatch already in the doctor’s office was nearly finished. Dr. Hopper’s talking points had been becoming more incisive again, and he had a feeling that he would need something to occupy his hands.

Despite the orderly coming in to give him a reminder, Rummond walked down to Dr. Hopper’s office alone. He’d been relieved of his chaperone once again, for however long that might last. It was about independence and trust, he realized, but it _was_ nice to have the company when Humbert was along.

Aside from making his own way there and the doctor not taking his usual moment out in the hallway, the first minutes of the session proceeded as always. Dr. Hopper met him at the door, he took the watch in its handkerchief from the bookcase, and he made himself comfortable on the end of the sofa nearest the window. A few moments of quiet, and the doctor began.

“While you’re still feeling so well, I wondered if we might touch on something a bit sensitive?” Dr. Hopper suggested. “What do you think of trying it?”

Rummond sorted out bridge screws from case screws - all that remained of putting the in-progress pocketwatch back together. His stomach sank a little. If the doctor was prefacing the session so, there would be something particularly uncomfortable coming.

“What sort of thing do you intend?” he asked, separating one of the bridge screws from the rest before he looked over at Dr. Hopper.

“I thought perhaps we could revisit your experiences in Germany.”

“We’ve been over that. More than once.”

“That’s true. However, I feel that there is a great deal more to talk about in regards to that time.”

Rummond’s mouth thinned into a hard line. He concentrated on carefully seating the bridge and getting a screw started, not quite turning it all the way in, so that it was secured but not immobile.

“Why do you not want to talk about it?” Dr. Hopper pressed after a short stretch of quiet.

Captain Gold gave a soft, derisive snort in a response that was not unexpected. “Aside from the obvious?”

The doctor simply looked at him, waiting patiently.

“I worry it’ll cause me to get worse again, going back over it,” Rummond finally admitted. If what Dr. Hopper said before was true - that he’d take a header downhill again sooner rather than later - why tempt it? Why _ask_ it to come after him?

Dr. Hopper nodded. “And if you don’t talk about it, if you think about it as little as possible, you can stave off any possible downswing?”

Rummond shrugged a shoulder as well as he could without disturbing the tool in his hand. “Something like that.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t how it works, Captain,” the doctor continued. “Whatever is coming will come whether you talk about it or not.”

“I do realize that. I’m no idiot,” Rummond snipped ill-temperedly.

“Oh, believe me, I know you aren’t. And I think you know I’m being honest with you when I say that you have more work to do in this part of your trauma. The only question is when you decide you’re ready to take off the kid gloves and go after it.” Dr. Hopper smiled, his demeanor kind as always.

“The gloves are off,” Rummond murmured.

“Pardon me?” the doctor asked, his patient’s response so quiet that he couldn’t hear even in the silence of his office.

Rummond set down the little screwdriver, his fingers lingering on the brass handle for a few seconds. “The gloves are off. They’ve _been_ off. I’ve talked through everything you’ve asked me to. It doesn’t matter how many times we go over it or ‘go after it.’ Facts are facts, and the fact that I’m at fault will never change with talk.” He shook his head adamantly.

“I hope you’ll forgive me, Captain Gold, if I disagree on this ‘fact.’”

They’d gone ’round and ’round about it - his patient blaming himself for everything that happened over and on the ground in Germany. It wasn’t a fight that was unfamiliar to Dr. Hopper, by any means, but it was always a saddening one to have with these patients. 

The Captain went back to his pocketwatch repairs and Dr. Hopper was left to consider his tactics. He hit upon something, and with full knowledge that it had more or less equal chances of getting through to his patient or inspiring a great deal of ire, he went with it. 

“The attack on Nurse French, when Lieutenant Tillman was still a patient here, whose fault was that?”

Captain Gold looked to him, frowning. “What?”

“When Lieutenant-”

“No, I heard you. Why would you ask a thing like that?”

“Would you answer, if you don’t mind?”

“Tillman,” Rummond said immediately. “Tillman’s fault.”

Dr. Hopper challenged his response. “Lieutenant Tillman was altered. He was in the midst of a pervasive hallucination…”

Rummond hesitated, giving the doctor a bewildered look. Who else’s fault could it have been? “He may not have been in his right mind, but it was still his doing. His actions. You were there.”

“Then it was no fault of anyone he might have harmed. Such as Nurse French.”

“Absolutely not.” Rummond balked at even the idea that it could be blamed on Belle.

Dr. Hopper nodded a bit. “She wasn’t in a position to defend herself at the time, but I would like to ask you to consider something in theory.”

Rummond waited for the doctor to go on, curious, though the conversation left him feeling bristled.

“If she _had_ been able to defend herself, and if she had harmed Lieutenant Tillman in an attempt to get away from him, would you - or indeed, anyone - consider her at fault for her actions in saving her own life?”

 _“No,”_ Captain Gold responded sharply. “Of course not.”

“Would you say then, perhaps, the concept of blame in life-threatening situations is not so cut and dried?” Dr. Hopper gave him a calm smile, watching the Captain’s face as he let it sink in.

Rummond’s gaze shifted past the doctor before looking down at the pocketwatch in front of him, as he fought against himself to reconcile one concept with the other.

It _was_ his fault, his boys being killed. His fault that he hadn’t been better able to defend them in the air, his fault he’d missed there was another enemy soldier present, his fault that those children in Austrian uniforms were dead. His fault. _His_ fault.

“Belle is different, though. Her situation was different,” he insisted.

“How so?” the doctor asked. “How is Nurse French defending her life different from you defending your life and the lives of your squadron?”

“Belle is not a soldier. She doesn’t hold a command or have to fight for her compatriots’ lives.” The Captain shook his head.

Dr. Hopper leaned his arms on his desk, hands folded together. The session was going better than he’d thought it would, progressing farther than he had considered Captain Gold might go today. He hoped that he had nudged his patient onto the right path.

“I assure you, Nurse French has many lives on her shoulders, and I’m quite certain she feels it keenly.” From everything Dr. Hopper knew of Captain Gold’s interactions with the ward’s nurses, he had respect for them, but the doctor wondered if perhaps he could use a still greater broadening of understanding there precisely in these circumstances. “She’s fought for those under her responsibility every day since she became a nurse. Perhaps not with a gun or plane, but she is no stranger to blood and battle. You know she was in the VAD?”

Rummond nodded, feeling a bit stunned. He’d known that. All of it. Really, he had. But it had somehow never before dawned on him to place it in context next to soldiering. “I know.”

“Many of our nurses here have.”

Nodding again, Rummond still turned the doctor’s remarks over in his mind. It was an odd feeling that it caused - a small doubt, an unravelling in the absolute truth he’d known since the moment their planes had begun going down.

“Do you think it would tarnish your squadron’s name, if it were a part of the record that they shared equally in responsibility for the events that occurred? Or that none of it could have been helped any way around?” Dr. Hopper asked, pushing in a slightly adjacent direction. 

Captain Gold glared up at him and grit out, _“It was not my boys’ fault.”_

“I didn’t say that it was,” the doctor told him gently.

He didn’t have an answer for Dr. Hopper’s question. Not a satisfactory one. He looked at the screws he had yet to place.

Dr. Hopper watched as his patient slowly went back to his repairs, his movements more mechanical, in the way they changed when the Captain had more on his mind than what his hands were doing. The doctor could tell by the look on his face that he was having some inward trouble with their discussion. It would come out one way or another; they would contend with it then. He wouldn’t attempt to give Captain Gold further to handle there just now.

“Can you tell me what you’re thinking?” he asked instead.

Rummond was quiet for a few moments more before quietly confessing, “I don’t know.”

It wasn’t a concealment of his thoughts or a deflection - he had too much there to be able to grasp anything solidly enough to explain it. Too many thoughts and the emotions that came attached, and he struggled to sort them.

With that, it was Dr. Hopper’s intent to allow his patient to use the end of his appointment to process in the calm of the office. A good five minutes, that lasted.

“It was unreasonable, asking to be discharged before,” Rummond said, breaking the quiet and causing the doctor to look up from scribbling at something. “I don’t want to leave until it’s doubtless I’ll be all right. I don’t want to be let out only to have to put myself right back in, as Hargreaves has. I want to get back to my son, but I won’t bounce him around that way. He deserves better.” And though he didn’t say so in front of Dr. Hopper, Belle deserved better, as well.

Dr. Hopper nodded a bit belatedly, perhaps a little thrown by his patient’s shift in train of thought. It was an excellent thing, though, the Captain’s determination to see it through, and the understanding that it was a road he couldn’t shorten out of simply the desire to do so. 

“Many of the patients I see here go through something similar. It’s quite all right.” Dr. Hopper smiled across at him. “I won’t say it’ll be an absolutely certain thing. There has never been a case where I could promise, one hundred percent, that a patient would never need a hospital again. Your situation is different from Lieutenant Hargreaves’, as everyone’s is unique. But I assure you, Captain Gold, I won’t release you until you have your feet on solid ground.”

That seemed to go a ways toward soothing his patient’s concerns, and the Captain went back to the pocketwatch laid open in front of him. He was just fitting the back on when their time was done.

Rummond leaned to look at the clock, setting the pocketwatch’s time before slipping it into his robe pocket. He rolled up the tool case and took Strand’s watch over to the doctor’s bookcase to wait for him. Dr. Hopper had risen to see him to the door when he turned.

He wavered. The doctor had asked him something once, and he wondered if the time for responding was past. He at last had an answer, though.

“I thought of something,” Rummond said a bit shyly as Dr. Hopper reached for the door handle. “Something good I’ve done.”

The doctor seemed to light up at that. “Did you?” he asked with genuine interest, placing every ounce of his attention on his patient.

Rummond twisted his hand around the crook handle of his cane. “I was speaking with Nurse Nolan’s husband a few days ago. It brought to mind some things that happened fairly early in my flying days. Long story short, it came to my commanding officer’s attention I could do a bit of night flying. Couple of occasions, long before I was Captain anything or had boys of my own, we lost a boy from camp. Down in enemy territory, you know?”

Dr. Hopper nodded, encouraging him to go on.

“I was told very specifically of it, and right away when my commanding officer knew something was amiss. It wasn’t my job, not officially. But he’d get detailed about it, where they thought such-and-such a boy had gone down, and he’d make sure I had the night open and the airfield unobserved… So I’d sneak off in a two-seat scout and go fetch them back on the sly. Retrieved three, that way.”

“You were never caught?” the doctor asked. “By the enemy, I mean.”

Rummond shrugged, shaking his head. “Went in, found the boy, got out.”

Dr. Hopper shook his head right along. Captain Gold spoke about it as if it were easy as pie. As if he’d risked life and limb without thinking a thing of it.

“That counts as good?” Rummond asked, suddenly unsure of himself, with the way Dr. Hopper looked at him.

The doctor swallowed hard, and Rummond wasn’t quite sure why. “Yes. That counts. That counts as very good, Captain. Thank you.”


	57. Stories (or, To Know We’re Not Alone)

The ward was slow and quiet, for the most part. Somewhat miraculously, Commander Strand was the sole patient having any manner of significant trouble, and that only because his lost leg had been giving him pains again. Nurse Mills had called in the early morning hours to inform that she would be absent from work, and back in the next day. The nurses all felt a bit like mice without the cat around.

The head nurse was not the only employee to call or simply not clock in, either. Since the beginning of the week, orderlies had been dropping like flies; four, now including Quinn, were out with a terrible catarrh shared amongst them. Gardner had been lent to the north wing, which was completely without orderlies, and they’d been left with Graham on the east ward - blessedly so, as far as Belle was concerned. Nurse Boyd’s daughter had acquired the measles from a child of the neighbor who kept her during the day, and she’d been asked to stay home for the duration in an attempt to keep it from invading and running rampant in the hospital. Nurse Nolan was also on the north ward to make up for lack of hands, leaving Belle, Ruby, and Ariel to handle their own. 

Belle’s morning had been a bit frantic upon finding how many people weren’t coming in, but the day was turning out curiously sedate. On their own ward, at least. Each time there was a noise greater than a normal speaking voice in the room, she winged up a quick plea that the ward would remain peaceful. A round of chaos would have been particularly unpleasant, short as they were.

Altogether, this was why she could sit with Rummond to play gin rummy, rather than being run to and fro with Nurse Mills’ busy work for a single day.

Rummond was still an excellent loser, if growing a little frustrated after the third time she trounced him. She was just becoming tempted to throw their current hand for him when a familiar face showed for the first time in many months.

“Astrid!” Belle called, trying to wave Nurse Novak over when the girl stopped in the doorway, half hidden. She received a look in return as if she’d caught the young nurse at something.

Belle rose, placing her cards face-down on the blanket. “I won’t be a few minutes,” she told Rummond, touching his knee before she stepped away.

Nurse Novak smiled as Belle made her way over. “I only came by to bring something,” she said, absently touching her apron pocket. “One of the men on my ward heard there might be someone on yours who can repair watches, and he wanted to see if his could be fixed?”

She peered past Belle the entire time she spoke, her eyes drawn away. Belle glanced back, and she was unsurprised to find Leroy directly in Astrid’s line of sight. He hadn’t yet noticed her in return.

“There is,” Belle said, and she waited until Nurse Novak’s eyes flicked back to her. “And I’m sure he wouldn’t mind having a look.”

As quick as that, the other nurse’s attention had strayed again. “Astrid…” Belle said, interrupting Nurse Novak’s look of longing once more. “Why don’t you come in and stay for a while?”

“Oh, no, I- I couldn’t.” She shook her head quickly, a high, nervous little laugh escaping her.

“I wouldn’t tell anyone. Nor would any of the others on the ward today. And Nurse Mills is out,” Belle enticed.

Astrid looked over to Leroy again. Belle could see how she wanted to, and she saw when the temptation became too much.

“Well…” Astrid checked the corridor behind her before she slipped inside. “All right, then.”

She followed along as Belle returned to Rummond’s bedside. “Our watchmaker, Captain Gold,” she introduced, giving him a grin. “Captain, this is Nurse Novak. She has something to ask, I believe.”

“It’s so lovely to meet you.” Astrid took a step closer, searching her pocket busily as Belle sat on the edge of the bed.

“Likewise,” Rummond said, giving Belle a curious look.

“I don’t know whether you repair wristlets,” Nurse Novak began, pulling the timepiece out and holding the open strap between her hands. “Or- or if they might be different from pocketwatches - maybe they’re an entirely different thing? It’s all right if they are! I told him they might be,” she rattled off rapid fire, nodding to assure Captain Gold. “But he heard there was a man here on the east ward who works magic with watches, and I thought, well, it couldn’t hurt!”

Rummond listened, and he was tempted a bit to see just how much farther she would go on if he waited longer to contribute. He looked to Belle, catching her as she pulled her lips between her teeth to hold in the amusement with his first exposure to Nurse Novak.

“I’ll give it a look.” He held his hand out for the watch. “It’s clockwork. I’m fairly certain it’ll fix.”

A broad smile spread across Astrid’s face. She gave the wristlet over and flopped her arms happily back to her sides. “Oh! Thank you! I’ll let him know as soon as I get back. I think I…” She looked at Belle, then turned to gaze across at Leroy’s back again. “You’re certain that Nurse Mills isn’t in today?”

As per Gormlaith Fowler’s demands, Nurse Novak’s schedule had been coordinated with the head nurse’s - the better to keep a close eye on the girl. Astrid’s leash had been made very short, indeed. But with Nurse Mills away and her pet orderlies temporarily decimated, there was found a bit of slack in it.

Belle nodded, smiling up at her. “She won’t be back until tomorrow.”

“Is she ill, or-? Not that I want her to be ill! I know she’s been out for other reasons lately, and I only wondered whether-”

Ruby, passing by with a clean bedpan swinging from her hand, scoffed loudly. “Harridan is too mean for a germ to land on.”

“Ruby,” Belle admonished laughingly, and the other nurse threw a smirk back at her.

“Do you think I have time to go over to visit? Just a little?” Astrid asked, her own smile turning nervous again.

“Go on,” Belle encouraged.

Nurse Novak turned, then turned back to them. “Perhaps don’t repair the watch _too_ quickly?” she asked of Captain Gold.

“I do have quite the backlog,” Rummond offered. “It might well take a while.”

“Perfect!” Astrid chirped, and she hurried away.

Rummond gave Belle a look of impressed bewilderment. “She’s very…”

“Isn’t she?” Belle grinned, moving back into her spot farther in on the side of Rummond’s bed. “But she’s a good nurse, and very sweet.”

“That she is.” He smiled as Belle picked up her cards again.

Rummond had a cursory look at the wristlet. It was a trench watch, and a nice one. Likely an officer’s. Well taken care of, judging by the shine on the shrapnel guard and the condition of the band. He cupped his hands around it, holding them close to his face to check the hour hand. There was no glow at all. A good few years old, then, if the radium salts had worn off.

He looked up to find Belle looking back at him, a fond smile on her face. Reaching over to his table, he put the watch away in the drawer. With a slightly sheepish smile of his own, he murmured, “Occupational hazard.”

From the other side of the ward, they heard a gruff and shocked, _“Astrid?”_

Belle’s smile grew wider, and she leaned to see Astrid grabbing one of Leroy’s hands in both of hers as she perched on the side of his bed. When she brought her attention back to her own business, she found Rummond having turned to look, as well. Caught, he became suddenly very busy with taking his cards from his lap and sorting through them again.

Rummond took a card and discarded an errant jack of hearts that fit into none of the melds he was attempting to assemble. He resisted fidgeting, occupying his fingers by switching cards from one side of his hand to the other, but the odd feeling that had begun to prickle at the back of his neck persisted.

It took Belle a moment to decide what to do. Taking the card that Rummond had laid down would help her hand along - that was no question at all. If she left it, however, she _could_ possibly let him win. She plucked at the center of her lower lip with her front teeth. He wouldn’t thank her for throwing the game. If he found out. A little reluctantly, she took the jack and discarded a three of diamonds.

He flexed his right hand, stretching it and twisting his wrist as if it hurt. One of his feet twitched slowly back and forth beneath his blankets. Rummond was doing his best to distract himself from the sensation developing between his fingers. 

“Are you all right?” Belle asked, noticing how he squirmed. “Do you need something?”

He shook his head. “Just fine,” he lied, holding onto his smile.

Slick at first, then sticky. Warm. As though it had only just run from someone’s body.

“If you’ve tired of playing-” Belle began.

“No,” he said immediately. If they stopped, he worried that she would leave, and he would be left there alone with it starting. He put on a playful lift to his voice. “I’m not tired. Only a small cramp. You wouldn’t be attempting to sidetrack me, would you, Nurse French?”

Her eyes narrowed, and she feigned indignation. “Why, Captain Gold, I would do nothing of the sort.”

“Hmm…” he hummed, giving her a teasing look as he tilted his head.

Rummond took his turn and left the card he’d drawn, and she drew one again, herself.

It began to show itself, moving beyond the tactile. He’d hoped it would pass. A few of the milder ones had with barely a recognition, these last couple of weeks. But his hands glistened, deep and blackish red, the cuffs of his gown stained with it. He fought to ignore it as droplets fell to the sheet where it folded over his blanket’s edge, his fingers leaving smears on the cards. His hands began to shake.

Belle discarded a queen of clubs in favor of her new card, and she smiled up at Rummond. He looked back at her, and there was fright in his eyes even as he tried to pull a smile up again.

Her posture straightened in alarm. “You’re seeing something,” she said, by now knowing the signs of it in him.

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” he repeated, though he did nothing to deny it. “Let’s just-”

It began to _smell_ like blood. He swallowed convulsively, his insides giving a violent turn, and he regretted every bite of breakfast he’d had this morning. It was bad enough, bringing up bile, but a full stomach… 

He dropped his cards aside and threw the blankets off him, grabbing for his cane. He was struggling not to retch before he made it to the privy, and he dropped to the tile before the toilet without managing to get the door shut behind.

Belle followed after, only realizing that she still clung to her cards as she got to the washroom. Shoving them into her apron pocket, she stepped inside and closed the door. Rummond had done, it seemed, by the time she went in. His cane had fallen next to him, and he leaned with his arms on the seat, shivering.

She ran hot water and dampened a cloth in it. “Here,” she said gently, holding it to his cheek until he could take it. When he had, she picked up his cane to lean it nearby, and pulled the toilet’s flush.

Rummond sat back, his shoulders against the rim of the bathtub. He groaned as his stomach tried to lurch again. He had to close his eyes to tell himself that his hands hadn’t soiled the cloth with blood, so that he could touch his face with it. He washed his face from his eyes down, getting rid of the tears brought out by the force of being sick, before wiping at his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and the words came out a whisper from his raw throat.

“You don’t have a thing to be sorry for.” When he seemed to have finished with the washcloth, she took it from his hand and replaced it with a cup of cold water. She made certain that he held it securely before she let go, seeing how he’d screwed his eyes shut against _something._

Rummond rinsed his mouth a couple of times, leaning to spit the water into the toilet. He heard Belle step closer, moving beside him, and he felt her dress graze him as she sat on the rolled rim of the tub.

“I’ve ruined our game.”

She reached down to touch his hair, combing it away from his face again and again as it fell forward with his ducked head. “You did nothing of the sort.” 

He gave in to the need to lean his head against the outside of her thigh. “Do you mean to tell me, you didn’t have a peek at my cards?” he asked hoarsely, doing his best to give some levity to the moment.

Belle smiled a bit, lengthening the movement of her hand so that her fingertips stroked along his cheek as she moved his hair back. She felt him sigh. “I would never.”

“Well, that’s a bit disappointing.”

“Disappointing? That I didn’t cheat?”

“That you’ve beaten me so many times fair and square.”

She cupped her hand to his cheek, her fingers curling beneath his chin. He hummed a little, and she felt the vibration of it. “How do you feel?”

He turned his face in toward her skirt, mumbling, “I could run a mile.”

Belle tightened her fingers gently under his chin, shaking her head. “Do you still feel sick?”

“No. I believe it’s done.” The blood, however, that was a different story.

“We should go back, then. The washroom isn’t quite as private as storage. Someone is bound to need it, eventually.”

He didn’t want to move. Her leg was warm, and her hand was warm, and her touch drove _some_ small part of his intrusive thoughts away, at least. But he shifted away, reaching for his cane to help lever himself back to his feet. Belle’s hand went to his back as he rose, and he understood that she was steadying him - something he was grateful for as the shakiness in his bones crept up on him.

Rummond rinsed his mouth at the sink with a sip from the bottle of Dr. Tichenor’s that one of the American boys left on the shelf above it. He took a mouthful of water after, to get rid of the scalding sensation, and picked up the bar of soap to wash his hands. He tried to ignore it, the hallucination. There was no blood there. Only flesh and water and soap. He couldn’t help _trying_ to wash it away, though.

He didn’t realize quite how hard he scrubbed them until Belle stopped him.

“Rummond,” she said, easing the soap out of his grasp. “You’ll break the skin.”

She took down a small towel and wrapped his hands in it. “What is it that you’re seeing? Can you tell me?”

His frown deepened, and he opened and closed his fingers beneath the enclosure of the towel and her hands. “Blood,” he told her. His answer turned out a tad terse, but she didn’t react to it.

That made some manner of sense, then, with his behavior. She squeezed his hands. “Someone’s in particular?”

He huffed a short, humorless laugh. “Anyone’s? Everyone’s? Could be any number of people.” God knew he had enough of it on him.

“Have you told Dr. Hopper about this one?”

Rummond nodded. He was sure it had been added to the doctor’s file somewhere.

She took the towel and set it aside, looking at his hands. He hadn’t hurt himself, and she knew it would help precisely none at all to tell him that what he was seeing wasn’t there. That wouldn’t make it go away; it was visible to _him._ Instead, she took one of his hands and pressed a kiss to his fingertips.

He opened his mouth to protest, but she’d done it before he could speak. With no small amount of relief, he saw that none of what stained his hands had transferred to her skin. Quickly, she bounced up on her toes and caught his lower lip in a kiss, gone again before he quite knew it had happened.

He wasn’t sure that he would ever become accustomed to the freedom with which she gave him affection. He very much hoped not.

Belle herded him out before her, making certain that the washroom was set to rights for anyone who might come after. When she returned to his space, he was standing next to the bed, carefully pulling the covers back in an attempt to salvage their card game. She waited until he sat and made his nest among the blankets again, and she took back her own place.

“In your pocket, eh?” he asked with a weak grin when she pulled her cards out.

“I put them there in my hurry,” she said in her own defense.

“Mm _hmm.”_ He sorted his cards again, giving her a teasing look over top of them. “Protects her cards with her life even when there’s no money in the pot.”

Belle gave him a daring little smirk. “Oh, if you want to play for money-”

He snorted softly in amusement. “You’d have me down to my drawers before lunchtime.”

His retort was automatic, and she was shaking with silent laughter by the time he heard himself. Rummond’s face pinked.

“I believe it’s your turn,” Belle said. She pressed her lips together and gave him a saucy look of her own.

Nurse Halloran came over while he considered the card he’d drawn. “Eric needs something for the pain,” she told Belle.

“Go and find Nurse Nolan, and have her let you into the supply closet,” Belle instructed. “Fetch him a level teaspoon of laudanum. No more, no less. All right?”

With a nod, Nurse Halloran scurried off.

“Do you need to go see to him?” Rummond asked, finally electing to switch out a card.

Belle shook her head, smiling. “Ariel will be fine.” She leaned toward Rummond a bit, waiting until he leaned in to meet her before she whispered to add, “I keep hoping she might say more than two words to Commander Strand in one go, if I leave him to her responsibility.”

“It hasn’t worked yet?”

She shrugged. “She goes positively mute in his presence. She couldn’t even answer when he asked her given name. Ruby had to tell him.”

Rummond snickered softly. Poor thing. He understood the girl’s situation, though.

“She’s head over heels for him, and worse all the time. And he gives her those doe-eyed looks. But she’s so awkward, and I don’t think she’s noticed at all.”

“Perhaps one needs a firm push toward the other.”

“I’m this close to it!” Belle agreed, measuring a hair’s breadth between her thumb and forefinger. She took a card and sat back again.

There was a softened thump on the other side of the ward door, and Graham came backing in, pulling the trolley full of lunch trays with him. Belle heard Rummond make a small, disgusted sound. Graham took trays over to Reyes and Strand, then brought the next in their direction. Rummond eyed it, looking a bit green again.

“Set it over on his footlocker,” she told Graham, and he did as she asked.

Graham stepped back to her side, clearing his throat. He leaned down, speaking quietly next to Belle’s ear. “As of this morning, according to Archie, Dr. Coughlan has left town.”

Belle gave a soft gasp and leaned away to look at him. “You’re serious?”

Graham made a single, definite nod of his head, and he beckoned Belle close again. “He’s said his findings don’t give him enough evidence to go after anyone in particular.”

Sighing, Belle said, “Well, good riddance.”

“Good riddance, indeed.” Graham grinned. He looked over at Rummond, to Belle again, and gave her a none too subtle wink before going to finish getting lunch out to the ward.

“What was that about?” Rummond asked when Humbert had gone.

“Dr. Coughlan’s left.” She beamed over at him. “This morning.”

“Permanently?” he asked. Could he hope for that much?

“I’m not so sure about _permanently,”_ Belle said. Particularly not with the talk going around about Dr. Coughlan’s extracurricular interests in the hospital. “But it seems he’s not going to pursue the investigation further.”

It was a rare occasion she’d felt such relief. The chances of Dr. Whale looking at her for his machine’s demise had gone down, as well. Nurse Mills could insinuate all she liked, but if the administrator couldn’t - or wouldn’t - point fingers at her, then the head nurse couldn’t, either.

Rummond, feeling _that_ worry lift, at least, returned her smile and took his turn. He discarded it right away, knowing he had nothing to place it with, but the fact that he was still losing spectacularly no longer registered at all. Belle was safe from being found out for helping him. Despite his hallucination nagging at him, despite still feeling more ill than well, it was a good day.

Very slowly, Nurse Halloran came back onto the ward. For just a moment, Belle was unsure what she was doing. Then she realized that Ariel carried the teaspoon measure from the supply closet’s preparation area. She watched the nurse walk over at a snail’s pace, regarding her with disbelief before she chuckled in surrender. It would have to be very precise instructions for Ariel, then, assuming nothing at all.

“Use a paper medicine cup next time, Nurse Halloran,” she said as Ariel passed Rummond’s bed.

Ariel cast her a brief look of confusion before it dawned on her. She mouthed a silent, “Oh…” and gave Belle a careful nod as she continued on.

Belle gave as much attention as she could pay to the way Rummond behaved over his hands without making him suspicious of it. He worked his fingers, sliding them against one another and rubbing the pads of them together. Every once in a while, she saw him touching the edges of his cards, as though he had gotten something on them. She did her best to keep his mind occupied.

“I want to marry you!” Leroy said a bit too loudly.

Belle and Rummond exchanged a gaping look. He half turned where he sat and she planted a hand on the mattress next to her so that she could lean, both openly staring without the least pretense that they weren’t.

Right away, Astrid became agitated. She looked around, knowing well that the entire ward had likely heard him. “Don’t you think I want that?” she said, a bit more hushed, herself.

“I don’t know what to think. I haven’t _seen_ you in eight months,” Leroy groused.

“I can’t help that. You know I can’t,” came Nurse Novak’s wounded reply. “Ms. Fowler-”

“I _know._ The bat thinks she owns you.”

Rummond and Belle watched as Astrid looked down at her hand in Leroy’s. She began to pull it away, but he didn’t let go.

“She does,” Astrid said, choking up, now. “She may as well.”

Leroy tugged back at her hand. “She _doesn’t._ Doesn’t nobody own you.”

From there, their exchange grew too quiet to hear from Rummond’s bed. Belle frowned, her dislike for Nurse Mills and Ms. Fowler, both, growing by a few more increments.

After a moment, she found Rummond giving his hands a wary look, turning them over to examine from back to palm. An expression of surprised relief crossed his face.

“Has it gone?” she asked.

He nodded skeptically, continuing to check for a little longer, to be absolutely sure of it.

Belle reached over, touching his shin where he curled his leg in front of him beneath the blankets. “Good.”

She took her turn drawing, and, seeming in marginally better spirits, Rummond took his. He kept the card and laid down one already in his hand, obviously liking the exchange. 

Which made Belle feel a bit guilty after her turn came around and she added a ten of hearts to her hand. 

“Gin!” she exclaimed, showing her cards and separating the two melds she’d made.

Rummond smiled up at her, counting the points before beginning to arrange the cards back into a deck to be shuffled.

Belle reached across to curl her hand around one of his. “Why don’t we do something else?”

“No, it’s all right.” He shook his head. “I like this game.”

She had a suspicion that it was more a combination of _her_ enjoying the game and it being a thorough distraction.

“I offered to read to you, once,” she said, hoping that he might allow it this time. “Perhaps we could revisit that idea?”

Rummond glanced down, turning the cards the right way around. He nodded. “Here, or-?”

“Anywhere you like,” Belle offered. “We can stay, or we can go to the storage room, if you want.”

He thought it over while getting the playing cards tucked away in their box. “Here?” he finally said, balancing it on her approval.

The storage room would have lent them more privacy, but right here was warm and comfortable, just now. And the ward felt somehow safe today, even as close as they’d remained most of the morning, risking touches and warmer looks.

With the space between them cleared, she scooted closer. He shifted a little to the side, giving her more space, and she moved so that her leg curled on the bed to share room next to his, their thighs pressed together with his blankets between.

She reached for the book that sat on his table, her brows pulling together in dismay. “Oh, Rummond. _Anna Karenina?”_

He looked over to see whether the book had somehow changed in a way that might offend.

“How far have you read?” she asked.

“Not far. I only borrowed it yesterday.”

Belle had some trouble keeping a grimace off her face. “I think there may be some themes in this one that… might be uncomfortable for you.”

He gave her a look that was a little perplexed. “No, it- it’s fine. I’m enjoying it, so far.”

“I could warn you, so that it doesn’t give you an unpleasant surprise?”

“No, no,” he said, giving her a teasing frown before smiling at her concern. “Don’t spoil it for me.”

Though worried, Belle opened his book. After a short wiggle to settle into her new spot, she removed his bookmark and set it in her lap. She moved so that she could catch her shoe on the bed frame, to make a level place to hold the book open. “Where are we?”

Rummond reached over, touching the point where he’d left off on the page. 

_“‘Darya Alexandrovna,’”_ she began, _“‘wearing a dressing-jacket, the skimpy braids of her once thick and beautiful hair pinned at the back of her head, her face pinched and thin…’”_

After she’d gotten through a few pages, he laid a hand on her arm to stop her. “Would you mind if I fiddled with a watch?”

Belle smiled up at him. “Of course not. Anything you need to do.”

He poked through his bedside table drawer as she resumed, deciding upon the pin one of the nurses had brought to him, and brought out the tool case along with it.

Listening to Belle as she read proved to be a far better distraction than any card game. He opened up the lapel watch and found the problem - a wheel replaced too cheaply, its teeth worn down. Soon enough, though, his attention fell away from even the watch before him in favor of her voice.

She spoke smoothly, not a stumble or a hesitation. _“‘He knew she was there by the joy and fear that overwhelmed his heart. She stood at the other end of the rink, talking to a lady. There seemed to be nothing very special in her dress, nor in her pose; but for Levin she was as easy to recognize in that crowd as a rose among nettles. Everything was lit up by her. She was the smile that brightened everything around.’”_

A corner of Rummond’s mouth turned up, unable help his grin at the familiar sentiment of the words.

 _“‘‘Can I really step down there on the ice and go over to her?’ he thought. The place where she stood seemed to him unapproachably holy, and there was a moment when he almost went away - he was so filled with awe,”_ Belle read, imbuing her tone with the appropriate wonderment. _“‘Making an effort, he reasoned that all sorts of people were walking near her and that he might have come to skate there himself.’”_

He wondered whether she knew, whether she understood how so much of the passage could just as well have been pulled from inside him. Reaching over, he rested his hand next to hers where she held the book open, overlapping her little finger with his own. Only then did her reading interrupt. She bent her finger beneath his so that it slipped in next to his ring finger, smiling brightly over at him before finding her place again.

_“‘He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking.’”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays, everyone! Thank you for reading, commenting, giving kudos and likes, and all. :D
> 
> Because I don't want to post a chapter that gets into a heavy mini-arc right on January 1, I'm taking prompts for chapter 58. Any prompts for any time are welcome, but for this chapter in particular, I'm asking for fluffy things, and I'll work in as many as I can. So if there's some light and fluffy thing you wanted to see for Rummond and Belle, please do let me know! ;)


	58. The Sweet Face of You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt - _this-is-not-my-dream prompted: "I would love to see them just have a nice chat. Maybe talking about Neil leads to Belle telling Gold stories of the trouble she got into as a kid or something. (Psh, you can’t tell me she was a good little lady!)"_ and _ladybugsmomma suggested "an amazing fluffy indoor picnic"._

Belle felt a _bit_ badly for having asked Mrs. Potts to get up so much earlier than usual to make soup. Her guilt was assuaged by the kind cook’s lack of complaint, as well as the hope that one or the other of the things in the basket that she held on the car seat next to her might tempt Rummond into eating.

Her soup plot had begun the night before. He never did make an attempt at lunch, and tea went the same. She’d been busy with her evening tasks when dinner was brought out, but Rummond had taken the tray that Graham offered… and pushed it down to the foot of the bed, where he could more easily ignore it. Belle had seen, and she’d worried, and she’d had a discussion with Mrs. Potts about easily digestible things in her repertoire of recipes upon arriving home the night before.

“Good morning,” she said, no longer surprised at the shadows yet again beginning around his eyes. He looked up at her and smiled when she spoke, though, and that was a good thing.

Rummond returned her greeting as she closed in on his bedside. “Good morning,” he responded, eyeing the basket she carried.

It was much smaller than the picnic basket she and Neal brought along on Sundays, clearly not meant to hold anything too large. She set it next to him and took her usual seat. The hour was too early for her to clock in, which he assumed meant that she intended to stay while she nudged food at him.

Belle turning up with food wasn’t _that_ unexpected. He’d grown more accustomed to it, knowing that when he had to turn away trays, it was only a matter of time. It didn’t typically happen so quickly, though. He’d expected her to give him another day before bringing something in.

“What have we here?” he asked, shutting his book and setting it aside.

“Nothing too much.” She slipped the straw loop off its button, opening the basket. “Something I thought you might like.”

She brought out one of two large table napkins she’d packed, unwinding a spoon from the middle as Rummond watched patiently. Next came the second, in which she’d wrapped a few pieces of slightly overtoasted bread, knowing how he seemed to enjoy the crusty edges best. She took out one of a pair of lock-lid crocks just big enough to fit in his two hands. The contents of both had been blazing hot when Mrs. Potts filled them, and they were still steaming. It was all meant to make this easier. No trip to the kitchen, no bowls, no great production that might discourage him from eating.

Rummond held the crock that Belle offered first with a napkin folded underneath to keep it from burning his hand. He popped open the wire latch, setting the lid upside-down next him.

“Soup?” he asked. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to be contained in the little pots, but it hadn’t been that. Not so early in the morning.

She smiled when he looked up at her again. “I know how unfond you are of breakfast things.”

The way she took his likes and dislikes into consideration humbled him. He returned her smile, taking the spoon she offered. Poking it into the off-white soup to see what might be there, he found it heavy and almost perfectly smooth.

“That one is almond and cauliflower,” Belle told him before he could ask. “It’s all sieved, no pieces of anything. Just in case you might feel it would be easier to handle. The other is Turkish broth. It’s got a bit of rice, and I asked Mrs. Potts to add some slivers of veal back in after the straining.”

He shook his head. “You didn’t have to do this. In fact, you likely _shouldn’t,”_ he said, looking around his side of the ward. He was one of few awake so early - owing to having not been asleep, on his part - though Nurse Lucas had already turned the electric lights on. No one watched. Carrying baskets along when she brought Neal was one thing, but bringing in food solely and specifically for him was quite another.

Rummond found her gazing expectantly at him, and he looked at the bite held in the bowl of the spoon. They’d had similar conversations before, and it would go no differently, so he wouldn’t pursue it when she didn’t.

“Neal had a bit of excitement last night,” Belle began. “The entire house did, really.”

His expression brightened at mention of his son, and she flicked a look from his face to the soup and back again.

Rummond brought the spoon up, trying to get it into his mouth before his stomach could talk him out of it. He’d imagined the soup to be bland as typical invalid food, and it was anything but. It had a pleasant taste; there was plenty of salt, and he tasted peppercorn even above the almond and onion. Still, he had to hold it in his mouth for a moment before he could get it swallowed.

Between the soup and the story, Belle had another twinge of guilt. It felt bordering on blackmail when she brought things from home in this way, knowing he often only ate them to make her happy, and then there was holding the mention of Neal over his head.

“Neal broke a curio last night, after dinner,” she said once he’d taken a second bite. It wasn’t until she saw the way his face changed that she realized perhaps she shouldn’t have begun the story in just that way.

“I’m sorry, I’ll pay for whatever he’s-”

“No! No, no, that isn’t what I meant at all.” She shook her head, resting a reassuring hand on his knee. “It was nothing. He was playing and bumped a table, and an ugly little glass thing that one of my father’s clients gave him fell off. More than anything, he was relieved to have an excuse to toss it away.”

Rummond gave her a doubtful look. Lord, but father and son were alike.

“Besides, my household is well-accustomed to children’s mischief.” Belle grinned.

“You’re sure?” he asked, his spoon still hovering halfway to his mouth.

“Very sure. Go on.” She nodded to the soup, encouraging him to continue while she talked. “It upset Neal, as well. He took off almost before it hit the floor. My father followed him, and I stayed to clean up the bit of a mess. Well, my father came back a few minutes later, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him as flustered. It turned out he couldn’t find Neal. ‘Disappeared into thin air,’ he said.”

“He hid?” Rummond asked. Skittish as Neal was, he couldn’t be terribly surprised. 

“Oh, did he.” Belle laughed softly. “My father and I did a quick round of the rooms, and nothing. Then we got most of the household searching.”

Rummond had to remind himself that, since she was smiling as she told him, it obviously meant they’d found Neal and he was all right.

“I was headed to look out in the garden when I heard Mrs. Potts call for me.” Belle shook her head. “I ran to the kitchen to find her sitting on the floor in front of the lower cupboards, seemingly talking to the pots and pans. Neal had wiggled his way in past the saucepans and skillets, and he was hiding in the far corner. Mrs. Potts was doing her best to coax him out again.”

He listened, slowly feeding himself, frowning a little as he worked to get it down.

“Poor darling, he wouldn’t even look at me, at first. He had his face turned toward the wall - I could tell that he was crying. I told him how I’d broken more than my fair share of my father’s bric-a-brac over the years, and promised that no one was angry.” She’d assured Neal that accidents happen, and that their house was as good a place as any for it. He’d been even more unsure than his father had been.

Belle didn’t tell Rummond how she’d never had such distaste for anyone as she felt still growing for that child’s mother and whatever his mother’s ‘friend’ was, or the very specific place she’d like to see them go for instilling that sort of fear in Neal.

“He asked twice more whether anyone was angry, before he would come out,” she said. Her hand drifted back to Rummond’s knee, and she tried not to watch _too_ closely as he took a piece of bread and broke a bite off the browned edge.

Neal had clung with his arms around her neck after she lifted him out from the cupboard, and they’d sat just that way until Mrs. Potts expressed an urgent need to be helped up from the floor. “We went up to his room and played Hoppity until he was sleepy enough to get ready for bed.”

Rummond had a pang of missing his son, and he reminded it that he would see him in less than two days. Listening to Belle talk about him was the next best thing. “You’re certain that the- the thing he broke-”

Belle laughed, raising the hand in her lap with a dismissive gesture. “It was a misshapen, mottled brown glass statuette of some indeterminable breed of dog. Or horse, possibly. That’s been up for debate for years. My father only brings it out when the client who gave it to him is in town. Don’t worry a second over it.”

She chanced a quick glance at Rummond’s soup when he reached for another piece of bread, and she found a good third of it gone. A little distraction helped a great many ways - with _both_ of the Golds in her care, it seemed.

“I can’t imagine _you_ causing much trouble,” Rummond said, giving her a smile.

Belle gave him a questioning look in return. “Me?” she squeaked.

“You mentioned how your house is accustomed to children’s mischief.” The thought had been rattling around in the back of his mind since she’d made the remark.

Belle wrinkled her nose in recollection. She could have blamed her observation on Mrs. Potts’ grandson, but the truth was that Christopher had only picked up where she left off, as far as the usual childhood antics went. 

“The longer you go on, the longer I may work on this,” he told her, picking up another bite.

She found a glint in his eye, and with his teasing faded the needling bit of her conscience. She gave him a gentle swat on the leg that set him laughing with the spoon in his mouth, and for a moment she feared he would swallow it..

“Let’s see, then.” Belle thought, searching for something suitably amusing that involved more than ‘inappropriate’ precocity with books of anatomy or hidden cufflinks in attempts to thwart her father’s frequent travel. “There was the trouble over rabbits…”

“I’m already intrigued.”

“All right, then. My father was hosting his first business dinner. All of his colleagues, the most elite of his clients, all invited. It was to be an _enormous_ to-do.” Belle’s recounting of it was some combination of her Papa’s and Mrs. Potts’, as both enjoyed telling it in a certain mood, and she only learned the full story through them. “He wanted some grand feast to impress, and from Mrs. Potts, he got the idea for Florentine of rabbit as the centerpiece of the entire thing. I had no idea what Florentine of rabbit was. I only knew we suddenly had a pen of a dozen rabbits out in the garden.”

Rummond’s tickled look turned into sympathy. A little girl and rabbits - he could see where at least a part of this was going.

“Oh, I thought they were the loveliest pets in the world. Soft and brown and cuddly. Mrs. Potts let me help to feed them, and they got a habit of crowding the pen door when I came out. I’d even _named_ them. And _then_ I found out they were to be eaten. Mrs. Potts took pity on me when she found me calling them by name, and she sat me down and explained it.”

“And that didn’t go over well.” It wasn’t even a question. Rummond could see Belle’s stubborn expression in a smaller form as clear as day.

Belle pressed her lips together, shaking her head. “As well as an anvil in a rowboat. There I went, stamping off to my father’s study, positive that I could talk him out of it. I begged, and when begging didn’t accomplish it, I cried. Looking back, I see how ridiculous he thought it was, such upset over rabbits _meant_ to be eaten.”

Rummond gave a quiet hum. “Of course, that wasn’t the end of it.”

“No, indeed. It took me a few days more, but I hatched a plot,” she said, and he heard pride in this plot still in her voice. “Early, early the morning of the dinner, while the house was asleep, I went out and freed them. It had been raining all the night before, and I was muddy to my knees by the time I was done with it, but I saved those rabbits.”

“How old were you?” 

“Oh, younger than Neal by a year or two.”

“What happened when your father found out?”

She snickered at the memory. “He had to replace rabbit with chicken on the dinner menu. He made up a yarn about the rabbits having caught some illness, and claimed that he couldn’t risk his guests’ health. As for me, he decreed that I was to stay the day in my room without meals. And then he brought each meal up to me, himself, before he ate his own.” Belle grinned. “He never could stick to punishments very well. Besides, I don’t think he was all _that_ shocked I’d absconded with them.”

Rummond smiled back at her, glad that her father was such a soft touch. “He didn’t try to retrieve the rabbits?”

She laughed harder, setting her hand on his knee again. “I never did tell him where I took them!”

“Where _did_ you take them? That many rabbits, small as you were?”

“There’s a great field up a bit from our house. I’d seen rabbits there before. I could only carry one at a time, and it took hours, but I carried them up the road, thinking it must be the ideal place for them. I hope they were all right… You know, every time I see a rabbit around there, I wonder if it’s a descendant of one of those I liberated.” She looked down, brushing some imaginary bit of thread away from her skirt. “It’s so silly, saying it aloud.”

“It isn’t. And it wasn’t ridiculous,” Rummond said before poking a bite of toast into his mouth. He could imagine Neal doing the same. Hell, he could imagine himself doing it, as a boy.

“It was the first and last time my father decided to bring live animals around for food.”

“I’ve a feeling they’d find their way to some idyllic field, as well, if he tried again.”

“They would, even now,” she agreed, half teasing. There was definitely a reason they’d gone to buying meat only from the market.

When he held the spoon between his teeth and took the lid to put it back on, Belle asked, “You’re finished?” and hoped that she didn’t sound too prodding.

Rummond pushed the latch down again, and he replaced the crock in its space in the basket. “I thought I might try the broth,” he said, reaching for the other. 

She waited while he removed the lid and got the crock situated with the napkin in his hand once again. “Do you have any stories about yourself? Little misadventures?”

He hesitated. “Not many,” he told her quietly.

Rummond looked into the Turkish broth and navigated around the rice and meat in it, for now. He leaned to sip a spoonful, eating this a bit more carefully. It had been made with most of the same spices as the almond soup, but he tasted marrow from the bones in the stock and the mace underneath, and he concentrated on that for a few moments while he tried to find something as happy as her tale to tell her. There was nothing, really, but one came close.

“I have one story,” he said, waiting until the rice had settled enough that he could take another spoon of broth from the surface. “From a period when I was with my Aunties.”

Belle shifted over enough that her knee touched his. “Tell me?”

“I’d been staying with them for a month, this time. The two of them kept sheep, sold the wool carded, and made into roving, and spun up as yarn. Sold the lanolin, as well. Wasn’t something they were wealthy off of, but they made enough to live.” He paused for a spoonful of broth. “When I stayed with them, they needed something for me to do. Keep me occupied, out of their hair, and such. So they’d set me about tending the sheep.”

Belle smiled at the image that brought to mind. A little boy who looked a good deal like Neal, playing shepherd out among a herd of sheep.

“You’d think sheep were calm little things, but oh, these were the most obstreperous beasts. I’ve met mules not as mean. There was one in particular - a young ram - he’d butt me right down if I didn’t keep my wits about me. I had to herd him clear to the other side of the enclosure before doing a single thing else.”

He stopped to sip with hardly a sound, and her lips twitched as she imagined him facing down with such badly-dispositioned balls of fluff. 

“Poor little Rummond, tormented by sheep,” she teased.

The smile he gave her in response was just the tiniest bit tart. “Well, this particular day, he snuck up on me when I was letting myself out. Butted me in the back and walked right over me, and I’d still swear he gave me an extra kick. Before I was up and had the gate latched again, he’d started down the road as if he knew precisely where he was headed. And so, obviously, I gave chase.”

“You didn’t tell your Aunties?”

“I was afraid they’d blame me!” He huffed a soft laugh through his nose. “No, all eight years and fifty pounds of me lit off after the creature, determined I’d have him back before they called me in to lunch, and they’d never know he had tasted freedom. He was _leading_ me, though. He’d run a ways, and stop to look back at me. Soon as I ran to catch up, off he’d trot again. Kept that up for hours. I chased the bloody thing all the way up to Milngavie before I knew, terrified I’d lose him.”

Belle frowned. It was no longer so funny. “That’s a long way, isn’t it?”

“Aye, my blisters had blisters. I finally caught up and got my belt looped around his neck to leash him, and I thought I’d die just thinking about walking back. I limped myself perhaps five minutes along, and there came Auntie Brigh on a horse borrowed from a neighbor.” Rummond grinned, shaking his head. “She found me by asking people along the road if they’d seen a boy chasing after a ram. She’d seen him missing, and she knew precisely what had happened. Oh, I thought she was going to give me a hiding, before she jumped down.”

“They weren’t angry, were they?” Belle asked, hoping very hard that they hadn’t been.

“Only that I hadn’t said something rather than haring off on my own. She hugged me harder than I’d ever been hugged.” One corner of his mouth pulled up into a smile at the memory, and Belle saw him blink more quickly. “She set me on the horse in front of her, and that blasted sheep followed right along after us.”

Belle reached out for him again, petting his knee in short strokes. “It’s a wonder that you didn’t ruin your feet then and there.”

Rummond looked up at her, bewildered with her reaction. “Auntie Glenna put salve on them,” he said with a bit of a shrug. “They parked me in bed for three days before they’d let me stand for more than long enough to go to the privy.”

“They sound wonderful.”

His smile overtook the rest of his face. “They were.”

“Glenna and Brigh, those were their names?” she asked, wanting to remember them. If they’d been kind to him, they were worth remembering.

“Glenna Cowden and Brigh Irving. They’ve been gone a long time, now.” They’d passed on well before he ran away and enlisted, one only a month after the other. 

“Did they have family? Children?”

“They, ah-” Rummond looked at his spoon, catching grains of rice and letting them wash over the edge of it again. “Do you know the term ‘Boston marriage’?”

Belle smiled, and she nodded quickly. Well then, no wonder he hadn’t found it strange when she confided in him about Graham and Dr. Hopper. “I’ve heard it.”

There were still moments when Rummond found himself missing them. He’d understood for longer than he should have that blood didn’t always mean a child would be loved, but his Aunties had been the ones to show him that it didn’t take blood to love a child.

“Thank you. For taking such good care of Neal,” he said, feeling the need to tell her.

And she replied in much the same way she did each previous time he’d expressed gratitude for it. “You are most welcome, and so is he,” she told him, recognizing the change in subject as not such a great change at all. “I love having him around. Everyone does. I only hope that he enjoys it half as much.”

“Judging by the way he talks about you, everyone else, the house, itself - I can only think he loves being there,” Rummond assured her. “If he didn’t, I don’t believe he’d have bloomed as he has with you.”

They looked at one another, and there was some strange little frisson of tension there. She was struck with an overpowering need to kiss him. 

Belle checked around them, making certain that no one who might cause trouble was watching, and she leaned to drop a quick kiss at the corner of his mouth. She felt Rummond lean into the contact as she sat back, and she wished she’d been able to linger there.

She wanted a safe place and a good stretch of time to kiss him properly, and to be kissed _by_ him. The sneaked and stolen kisses they managed grew frustrating and less satisfying. Particularly in light of being utterly aware how much more she needed of him.


	59. Those Who Trespass Against Us

As always, they’d arrived bright and early on Sunday morning before any of the other usual visitors made it in. Neal had run ahead onto the ward and into his arms, and Belle followed a few minutes later. She had the picnic basket, which was set to wait on his footlocker, and Neal had an armful of drawings that needed looking at immediately. Breakfast was nothing particularly glorious, but Rummond managed to eat his toast while Neal nibbled a path through the rest. Neal had begun to fill out his clothes, food and attention giving plump and color to his cheeks in the time he’d been in Belle’s care.

It was the third week in a row, now. The routine of it was comforting. He had something to look forward to - something to separate days from weeks from months, keeping day after day from seeming to flow together.

“I have to work this morning,” Belle said as Rummond sipped his tea.

Nurse Boyd was still out, as were a couple of orderlies, so Belle’s usual open Sunday morning was a bit less open. She’d had to clock in before following Neal onto the ward. Luck and paperwork lying in wait for the head nurse had apparently been on her side, and she’d been able to sit with them through breakfast. Lunch, at least, would remain her own time. 

She’d braced herself for a look of disappointment, but Rummond set his cup on the table and gave her a small smile. “You’ll be around, though?” he asked.

“Of course.” Belle rested a hand on his leg, and he placed his over it, curling his fingers around her own. “I’ll be by here and there, when I can.”

They were interrupted by a certain little boy bouncing on his knees between them, rattling the contents of the discarded tray and falling into his father’s lap. Rummond wrapped an arm around him, and she grinned, reaching over to give Neal’s face a gentle wag back and forth between her thumb and forefinger before going to make her first round of the day.

Nurse Mills made certain to keep her hopping, but she kept a weather eye on Rummond and Neal while she was in and out of the room. She missed her morning with them, accustomed as she’d become to the little tradition in such a short time, and looked very forward to midday.

Neal began going over the drawing he’d made of his classroom, complete with blackboard, globe, students, and teacher. Rummond listened carefully, gleaning information from his son’s enthusiastic chatter.

Neal was in the youngest class, taught by a Mrs. Guin Lapointe (which Neal grabbed hold of as a very clear ‘laaa _point’_ ). Once his son had been given a test and assigned, Belle told him the woman’s name and a bit about her. And according to Belle, she was an excellent teacher. Her husband was a patient on the east ward, as well, though his bed was far toward the back of the room, and Rummond had only rarely crossed paths with him.

It was half past ten when Reyes, watching out the windows in his boredom, gave a squawk of excitement. “Oh my days… There’s somebody pulling a Silver Ghost up in front!”

A few visiting children ran to the windows to have a look at the spectacle of a car, followed by a handful of patients.

_No. He wouldn’t._

Rummond’s stomach felt as if it dropped straight through the floor. He took Neal off his lap, telling his son, “Stay here. I’ll be right back,” before going across to look.

The walk to the windows overlooking the hospital drive seemed to take far longer than it should, and his heart pounded by the time he could see out. There was no one in the back of the car, but his father’s toadeater was just letting himself out of the driver’s seat. Rummond made his way back to his bunk, feeling as if he waded through mud to get there. Why would his father be _visiting_ him?

If he wasn’t visible in the driveway, that meant he was already somewhere in the hospital. Rummond had the urge to hide himself, but for once, it wasn’t even an option. He knew his father. The man would stay until he came out. He sat on the side of his bunk, stomach knotted and chest hurting with anxiety.

“Papa?” Neal asked, sensing that something had changed in the minute between his father leaving him and coming back. He took a fistful of his Papa’s robe to pull himself up to his knees.

Rummond opened his mouth to tell his son that everything was all right, and perhaps he should go and play with Grace and not come back until company had gone. Before he could speak, the doors were thrown open so wide that they slammed back against the walls. He startled, and he felt Neal’s hands clench in his robe sleeve. The disturbance sent the room silent.

His father came onto the ward with the overdone entrance, crowing loudly, “I’m here to see my son!” 

The man’s eyes fell upon Rummond right away. He amended himself with a snide, “My son, the ‘war hero,’” and a slow, venomous chuckle that made the edges of Rummond’s vision haze.

Malcolm Gold was dressed to the nines in a dark green suit tailored to his frame and a great black driving coat with a collar of fur, every inch of him brimming with pomp and ego. He removed the telescope-pinched fedora from his head and handed it to Nurse Lucas, who happened to be near enough to shove it at. She looked affronted, but said nothing.

Parts of Rummond’s father caught his attention; it was far easier than concentrating on the whole. Broad grin. Cold, sharp eyes. Crisp white spatterdashes with small white buttons. Black boots so well-shined that they glistened. The glint of the glass ‘diamonds’ in the starburst pin on his father’s hat as Nurse Lucas took it out with her. His father had worn the pin in one way or another since he was a small boy. He remembered it on lapels and cravats and hat bands far shoddier than the white silk sash it now appeared to call home. Malcolm had always assigned some sort of luck to it.

Felix, his father’s tagalong, helped him out of his coat. “Get me a chair, would you,” Malcolm demanded. He took his coat back, continuing on his way across the ward, and threw it over the foot of Rummond’s bunk.

Neal looked on curiously as Rummond stared up at his father, devoid of words in the distress that he bridled as hard as he could.

“Not so much as a ‘hello,’ eh? Should’ve figured as much.”

Felix returned with a lazy stride, delivering a chair for his master. Malcolm parked it next to his son’s bed with a screech against the tile, parking himself in it as though it were a throne - one leg crossed over the other, hands laced loosely in his lap, a slight slouch to his posture. As if he belonged there. 

His father’s toady remained close, standing behind Malcolm with his arms crossed, looking over the ward with a sneering smirk.

Rummond glanced around, feeling embarrassment prickle at the back of his neck before it poured into his cheeks. It seemed as if every single eye in the place was on his father. Which was, of course, the purpose of this performance.

He had seen his father exactly twice since running off to join the Navy. There’d been the begging for financial help to admit himself to the hospital, of course. Before that, he hadn’t seen him since Neal’s christening, when Malcolm had shown up uninvited to the reception. Rummond hadn’t been so much as able to eat, his stomach had been in such a condition with worry over what his father might say or do. As luck would have it, Malcolm took it upon himself to get drunk and pass out in the washroom before he had the opportunity to inflict too much damage.

And more than twenty years prior to the christening, there’d been the slap to the face that sent him into a wall on the night before he’d run away. Once, all those years ago, he’d thought he could escape his father completely. He really should have known better.

Rummond braced himself, trying to prepare for what he knew was coming. He hadn’t had to guard his heart against the onslaught of his father’s particular brand of humiliation in a very long time.

Malcolm looked past his son to Neal, grinning. “Haven’t seen you in a dog’s age, boy!” he said, leaning forward to clap the little boy on the shoulder. “You were too small to sell to the chimney sweeps last time I laid eyes on you.”

Neal looked up at his Papa, rubbing his arm, and Rummond gathered him protectively close. “There’s a reason f- for that…” he began, but his father either didn’t hear or ignored him.

Anything akin to ‘how are you doing?’ or ‘are you feeling well?’ was far too much to ask, Rummond was well aware.

“Isn’t dim-witted, is he?” Malcolm gave Neal a more appraising look. “We’ll just have to hope he turns out more like his mother, won’t we?”

Belle returned from taking a hamper full of bedclothes down to the laundry, intent on spending a few minutes with Rummond and Neal. There was someone - well, two someones - occupying the bedside, though. Rummond faced her way, but his eyes didn’t shift to her as they would normally have. Every bit of his attention seemed monopolized by the man sitting in front of him.

Neal was frowning and burrowing into his father’s side, and Rummond looked as though he were trying his best to disappear from his body. There was something very wrong. She waved off an approaching Ariel, pointing the young nurse toward Ruby, and went over to check whether she needed to intervene.

As soon as Rummond saw her, he scooted Neal up off the bed, nudging him in her direction. “C- c- could-”

_“C- c- c- c-”_ Malcolm imitated his son’s stammer. He laughed, and Felix snickered behind him. “Spit it out, boy. Nurse doesn’t have all day. Thought you were putting that on for the trial.”

Rummond turned red as a garden beet, and Belle could see the hurt in his face. She narrowed her eyes at the man across from him. 

_“Captain Gold,”_ she said, filling her voice with respect. “What is it that you need?”

He wanted Neal out of his father’s sight, but he didn’t want Belle there, either. He’d been the target for his father’s invectives more times than was possible to count. Neither of them should have to be subject to it. “C- could you take Neal out, p- please?” 

She kept a look fixed on Rummond, hoping to get more from him as far as his own condition went, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. After a moment, she held out her hand. Neal slipped his into it easily. 

“We’ll go and see about some paper and crayons, hm?” she offered, guiding him away. Clearly uncomfortable with whatever was happening, Neal cast looks back over his shoulder as they made their way off the ward. “I believe Nurse Lind might well have some at the front desk.”

Malcolm turned in the chair to blatantly watch them go. Rummond suspected he wasn’t watching Neal so much as watching Belle’s backside.

“Neal is a very b- bright boy,” he said, trying to draw his father’s attention away.

Continuing to watch until the doors had closed behind the nurse, Malcolm made an obscene grunt of a sound before turning his attention back to his son. “There must be _some_ reason Milah pawned him off on you.”

“I w- wanted him,” Rummond said, defensive of his son even if he couldn’t be so for himself. “He was not p- pawned off on me.”

“Ah, but y’see, I know better. Your wife might’ve shut _you_ out, but me, I hear things.” Malcolm tapped a fingertip at the side of his nose, sitting back again. “He’s a strapping lad. Bigger than you at that age. But I’m sure that’s due to his mother keeping him. Go on coddling him, though, and you’ll ruin him. Mark my words. Look at _you.”_

Rummond gaped at his father, struck dumb by the insinuation that he’d been coddled in any way as a child.

Appreciating the effect his ‘advice’ had, Malcolm plucked at the crease in his trouser leg. “Where does the boy stay?” he asked. “I know he can’t be staying here with the likes of you and the rest of the loons.”

“He has a p- place to live until I’m released. Safe and s- sound.” Rummond gave him only the most general of information. He was uncertain whether it was good sense or the fearful caution he’d always felt when speaking with his father, but something told him that providing detail was unwise.

“Too weak to stand the daily life of a man, and you never could find a woman who’d care a jot for you. ’Course you’d have to find a stranger to raise your issue.” Malcolm smirked, eyes boring into his son. “I saw you before you saw yourself, boy. I know you better than anyone ever has.” 

“Neal is fine. He’s safe and cared for,” Rummond repeated quietly.

“Don’t you worry,” his father said, the man’s tone going low and even in a way that Rummond had long associated with a knife being readied for twisting. “Someday that boy’ll recognize you for the puling, cowardly little pissant you are. Same as the rest of the world.”

The instinct to _get away_ was overwhelming, and it was all Rummond could do to stay where he was. His hands clenched together so tightly in his lap that his fingernails bit into the backs of them.

There was a glint of vicious amusement in Malcolm’s eyes. “Look at you. Four months in a spital-house, and still you’re all cringes and stutters.”

“I’m g- getting help. M- medical treatment,” Rummond murmured. “I’m getting better.”

His father laughed loudly enough to make heads turn toward them again, and Rummond shrank into himself a bit more.

_“Better?_ And who’s been telling you those lies?” Malcolm slid one leg slowly off the other, planting both feet on the floor and leaning over them. “You’re naught but a waste of money, aren’t you? Always the leech, you. Always were intent on spending me into the poorhouse. What’s the point of me forking out money to this ridiculous snakepit, if you’ve done nothing but go from cowering in one bed to cowering in another?”

Squeezing his eyes shut so hard that pain shot back through his temples, Rummond wished for his father to finish whatever it was he meant to do here, to leave him the Hell alone. There was nothing he could say in his defense that would matter. There never had been.

Belle, having gotten Neal settled enough with Mal at the front desk that she was comfortable stepping away from him, went back to the ward. Rummond looked worse than he had when she left. His eyes were closed, and he appeared tense from head to toe. He was in such disquiet that she itched to step in.

It wasn’t difficult to ascertain who his visitor was, between the thinly-veiled brogue, the man’s remarks and Rummond’s reactions to them. She fussed around the beds surrounding him, remaining nearby. The others in her area were just fine, occupied with visitors or their own distractions, and she was glad of it. It meant that she didn’t have to split her attention completely away from Rummond, outside of pretending not to keep such a close eye on him and his father, both.

Belle’s nerves grated to hear how he spoke to his son. She felt a distinct urge to hit the old man across the back of the head with an enameled bedpan. It would bring a larger and sorer lump than one of the plain metal variety, she was reasonably certain.

“You always were an ugly little worm. I shouldn’t be surprised you grew to be a cowardly snake.” Malcolm gave a grin, and Rummond recognized it. The mocking rictus that accompanied some of his worst memories of living with his father.

“Why did you come?” Rummond asked, his voice small. As soon as he spoke, he regretted it.

“You know… I _don’t_ rightly know why I took hours out of my day to see you. ’Twasn’t worth time nor effort.” He sat back in the chair, eyeing his son as if waiting to see whether he would respond again. When Rummond didn’t, he went on. “I always did know you’d come to a bad end. I’m only glad I lived long enough to see it happen. A good thing your mother died pushing you out,” he snarled, clearly enjoying the way his words fell on his son. “If she could see you now, boy, the _shame_ she would bear-”

Rummond wanted to cover his ears with his hands, and he resisted out of knowledge that it would only delight his father and goad him on. The words, _‘Stop, please?’_ made it as far as the tip of his tongue.

Belle, openly glowering at the man, at last had a full gullet of it. She marched herself over.

“What brought you here? A particularly bad day, or a good one?” she asked, interrupting his diatribe with purpose. “I’d like to know what kind of _mood_ you have to be in, to find coming here to torture your son a palatable idea.”

If she’d expected any sort of reply further than a brush-off, she’d have been disappointed. He laughed in her face. “Now, listen here, you little chit-”

She bristled. “You’ll call me Nurse French as long as you’re on hospital grounds.”

“Malcolm Gold. A pleasure.” He shifted a look from the nurse to his son, catching the way Rummond watched her. “This the one keeping the boy, then, eh?” 

“That is _none_ of your concern,” she said, not moving an inch when he leaned toward her. He gave a slow look down her body and up again, and she felt the need to boil herself in a bath.

“And sticking it to her, are you?” Malcolm kept his eyes on her as he addressed Rummond. “Keep it up, son, somebody might accidentally mistake you for a man.”

Before Belle could reply, she saw the ward door open a bit. Neal peered around it, having apparently slipped away from Nurse Lind. Despite her willing him to go back, the little boy darted right in. He didn’t make it all the way to his father before Malcolm pinned him down with a look.

Reaching over, Malcolm wrapped a hand around Neal’s arm to pull him closer. “You don’t remember me, do you, laddie?”

Rummond cringed at what should have been a sweet diminutive, at the memories that surfaced with it.

“What would you think about coming home with me?” asked Malcolm.

_“No,”_ Rummond gasped, prying his hands apart to get his son away from his father. Before he could reach, Neal pulled away from Malcolm’s grasp on his own to scurry behind Belle.

Malcolm went on as though neither of them were the least hindrance. “I’ve got dogs, servants. You’d have all the desserts you like. Anything you set your eye on,” he tempted.

“I would say that decision has been made,” Belle said. She could feel Neal holding onto her dress, pressing himself more and more closely against the back of her legs as Rummond’s father kept at him. 

“Too much like that one, aren’t you.” With a dismissive hiss, Malcolm flicked a hand at Felix to bring him over.

Felix took himself from his lean against the table, jarring everything on it, and bent to give his employer his ear.

“Go and get my hat from that nurse,” Malcolm told him. “The tall drink of cock lane we met on the way in.”

When Felix had begun his slow stalk away, Malcolm slid to the edge of the chair so that he could lean all the closer to his son. His face twisted into a snarling grin, and the sudden change in proximity made Rummond’s eyes focus and snap to his father’s face.

His father spoke low, brogueing suddenly full and heavy as he remembered from his boyhood. “Don’t let anybody fool ye, laddie. Ye’re a waste. Don’t let some splittail convince ye different.”

What frightened Belle more than Malcolm’s seethed words was the way Rummond responded to him. She’d have thought his face blank, if not for the misery in his eyes. He gave so slight a nod that she could barely tell he moved, and he breathed, “I know, Papa.”

Standing, Malcolm pulled his jacket straight more out of preening than any need. He kept a look fixed on his son, though Rummond would no longer meet it. 

Felix returned with the hat he’d been sent after atop his head, his face carrying a smarting handprint. He took the coat from the bed to help his employer into it. Malcolm took his hat, and in a moment of petty cruelty, he swung his hand to clout his son over the ear with it before putting it on his head. Caught off guard, Rummond recoiled violently away.

Belle pushed herself between Malcolm and his son, enraged so, she could feel her skin prickling. _“Leave,”_ she said through gritted teeth, and only saving Rummond the pain of another startle kept her from screaming it at the bastard.

“A lass fighting your battles for you.” Malcolm looked past her. “Still a pathetic smear of an ingrate.”

She shook in anger, relieved to see Graham come in with linens for the washroom. With one look at her, he handed them off to Nurse Halloran and headed toward her. Malcolm was already breezing his way out when Graham approached.

“I’ve missed something,” he said with a frown, taking in the condition of Belle, Captain Gold, and the Captain’s son, all.

Belle shook her head. She _would_ scream, if she had to explain any of it just now. “Make certain he leaves. Off the property. Immediately.”

Graham spun on his heel at the urgency in her voice, hurrying away.

Perhaps once in her time working at Firefly Hill had Belle ever had to have anyone seen off the property, and now three men in the space of three months. If she believed that a thing such as fate existed, she might have wondered if it held some grudge against Rummond Gold.

“Are you all right?” she asked, turning to him, and she knew it was a preposterous question as soon as it came out. Of course he wasn’t all right. How could anyone be, after the display his father put on? But it was all she had, in the moment.

Rummond turned his head a bit further away from her.

“I can make it so that Malcolm can’t come around again,” Belle offered. “If that’s what you want?”

He didn’t look up, but he nodded enough that she saw. She touched his shoulder in warning before laying a gentle hand at the side of his head - over the place where his father hit him, as though she could erase the memory of the last touch there. He flinched, tightening up all over for an instant.

“Here, stay with your Papa,” she told Neal, bringing him within reach of his father with a hand at his back before moving away from them.

She would need to inform Mal at the front desk, and Dr. Whale would need to know, as well. It would take a few minutes, and though she was loath to leave Rummond for even that short time just now, it needed to be done right away.

“Captain?” Lieutenant Hargreaves’ voice came from behind Rummond. “Captain Gold, are you all right over there?”

He heard, but he didn’t acknowledge. He didn’t want anyone asking. It was awful enough, knowing how many of the patients and their families around him had heard, but to have them asking after him was too much.

Rummond felt as if he couldn’t move from the side of his bunk without danger of breaking at the seams. Not even the desire to curl himself into a ball beneath the covers shifted him. With slow and carefully purposeful movements, he pulled the edge of the blankets over his legs.

He found himself shaking again, the tremors that had been steadily dissipating with time and treatment returning. It was ridiculous, feeling like a child again, holding onto handfuls of blanket and wishing to hide. Misery and hurt and an odd numbness churned through him, and he wasn’t sure how it all fit inside. He felt as if something had taken a go at clawing through his guts.

Neal climbed onto the bunk and raised up on his knees. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around his Papa’s neck, leaning against him.

An approaching _click-click-click_ of heels gave warning of Nurse Mills’ progress on her daily check of the ward. There was a bounce in her step, and she appeared very happy indeed, as she passed Reyes’ footlocker.

“How reassuring, to know that _someone_ so familiar with you sees you for what you are,” she said, as though she gave some genial greeting, when she paused near the foot of his bunk to mark something on her clipboard before going on. 

All at once, Rummond found the end of his rope. He struggled to keep it from happening in front of his son, but he couldn’t stop tears overflowing. He had practice in keeping them silent, at least.

Belle traversed the hospital end to end as quickly as she could, and the process of barring Rummond’s father from the premises went far more easily than she expected. Judging by what Dr. Whale said, it wasn’t an unknown situation, being forced to keep a patient’s relatives off hospital grounds. That in itself was somewhat dismaying. 

She hurried back to the ward. Even before Neal looked to her with a frightened little frown, she knew that something had happened in her short absence.

“Your father won’t be allowed in again,” she told Rummond, reclaiming her place next to him. “He’ll be removed from the property as soon as he’s seen, if he tries to come back.”

She heard a quiet sniffle from him, followed by a shaky breath. He didn’t respond, but his hands closed more tightly on the fistfuls of blanket he grasped in his lap.

“Who was that?” Neal asked, his arms sliding away from his Papa’s neck. He sat down on the bed, looking up at her from behind his father.

“That was no one,” she told him.

Rummond knew he’d have to explain his son’s grandfather to him someday, but that day was somewhere in the distant future. “That was n- n-” He took a breath, swallowing. “That was no one, duckling,” he echoed Belle softly.

There was the usual thump at the ward door before Gardner came backing in with the trolley from the kitchen, and Belle patted Neal’s leg. “Why don’t you go and wash your hands, get ready for lunch?”

Neal looked over at his Papa before turning away to squirm off the far side of the bed. He made his way to the washroom with less enthusiasm than usual.

“We’ve brought potato and ham soup, and some toast. There’s a veritable mountain of sandwiches, if you want. Mrs. Potts made a honey cake, and I believe she packed somewhere around half of the thing for us.” Belle reached over, making sure he’d had time to see her hand before she rested it over his forearm. “Do you feel like eating a bit?” she asked, hoping, though she knew his answer.

His thoughts moved _so slowly_ as he tried to pry them away from his father and back into the present. 

“No,” he said, his voice distant and strained, and he shook his head.

Belle took his hand, slipping her fingers in along his palm, dislodging the covers from it. She drew it across the space between them and squeezed it as tightly as she could without worrying she’d hurt him.

“He’s right,” Rummond whispered, staring down at the bunched bit of blanket over his leg. “Everything. He’s right.”

She tightened her fingers around his again, to bring his attention to her and out of his head. “Not a word out of your father’s mouth is the truth, Rummond. You understand that, don’t you? He’s _wrong._ In so many ways, he’s wrong.” 

He looked up, at last meeting her eyes, and the hollowness and grief there hurt right through the middle of her.

Rummond felt all he thought he’d been building crumbling. The progress people continued to tell him he’d made - everything wiped out in one easy stroke by the man who made him. He didn’t want it to happen, but he couldn’t stop it, either. All he could do was feel as it went.

He tried to remember how he pulled himself back together in the aftermath of his father’s accostings when he was a boy.

Hide. Try to pretend it didn’t happen. Run to his Aunties.

He had neither will nor energy for either of the alternatives that were still possible. He suddenly felt so _weary,_ wanting nothing more than to curl into his blankets and cease to exist for a while. Neal was there, though, and Belle, and he couldn’t. He worked to be present for them.

Rummond squeezed Belle’s hand in return, offering the weakest of forced smiles. “You should eat,” he said quietly. “I’ll try later. But you- you and Neal should eat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visual aid:  
> [Silver Ghost](https://40.media.tumblr.com/d269ebb40a0739ca3c5c1f38de1d9510/tumblr_inline_o0nt19pCGF1rjn473_540.jpg).


	60. Sick of Woe

Neal had been on his way, Belle having gone to see him to the car, before Rummond allowed himself to curl into a lump beneath the blankets. His son’s goodbye kiss was still warm on his cheek as he turned his back to the ward doors.

The ground was caving in beneath him. The energy to move and the will to speak seemed beyond him. He felt as though he should be able to function if he only _tried,_ but it was rare that he could so much as drag his body from the bunk. Most of the time, it was easier and hurt just a little less to not struggle against the weight of it. Belle came and went, talking to him, sitting next to him, and he knew that she was trying to draw him out. He could simply no longer find an edge to gain purchase on.

Belle, for her part, felt helpless. Rummond hadn’t been able to get to his appointment with Dr. Hopper on Monday, and Graham had attempted to fetch him to today’s session with an equal lack of success. The doctor, knowing his patient’s patterns, had sent Graham back once more with word that it was all right, and that he hoped to see the Captain on Friday. Belle knew he worried, though. Through Graham, she knew that Dr. Hopper regularly pressed for updates.

She’d tried everything she had learned to try. Honeyed tea, soups, nibbling from his plate to share with him. Even the pieces of candy she gave him went uneaten. Some he eventually placed on his bedside table; most she later discovered somewhere in the bedlinens. He was lost again, and as fiercely as she wanted to be the one to find and bring back the Rummond she knew, she hated that it wasn’t within her power to do so.

Late in the evening, when the ward was calm and dinner had been brought around, she sat with him again. Her midday break continued to be spent with him, and she’d taken to clocking out at the end of her shift and coming back to his bedside for another while. She was glad to see her Wednesday night shift come around. It meant not having to leave him tonight.

She went around to the far side of his bed, sitting on the edge. It wasn’t her usual place, but he wasn’t in his usual position, either. His right hand rested on the pillow near his mouth, as it did when he slept, and she reached for it. Curling her hand around his wrist, she held him there for a moment before sliding her fingers into place to check his pulse. She tilted her watch so that she could see the hands. His heart beat a bit slow, but not dangerously. Leaning, she looked at his face. She found his eyes turned toward her.

“Hi,” Belle said, giving him a smile.

He didn’t respond, but he hadn’t in days. After he’d begun withdrawing into himself on Sunday night, she had been able to get a few words out of him. By the next morning, even that much had gone. He did appear to listen when she spoke about Neal, so she gave him details about his son’s day - her own stories, what Mrs. Potts told her, the things Neal chattered about. She repeated everything she could remember for him.

She did the same on this evening, telling him what Neal had told her about being given the responsibility of cleaning his classroom’s erasers after school for the week, and how he’d been covered with a layer of chalk dust when Horatio went to fetch him. Belle leaned her arms on her knees as she spoke, so that she could see Rummond better. He watched her in return.

Graham came up the aisle from the back, having brought a clean pillow case for someone on the other side of the room. He stopped next to her, standing back so that he didn’t hover right over Rummond.

“How is he?” Graham asked.

Belle tightened her fingers around Rummond’s wrist. “I told him about Neal’s day yesterday.”

“Any participation?”

“He listened.” She looked up at Graham, taking her eyes off Rummond for the first time since sitting down with him. “Is this what it was like before?” she asked quietly.

“While you were reassigned?” Graham nodded. “A bit. I don’t think he’s socked in so firmly, isn’t _quite_ so unresponsive. But it was something like this. You read his chart.”

“It isn’t the same as being here.”

Graham smiled down at Captain Gold, though his patient didn’t look at him. The Captain’s eyes remained on Belle. He tilted his head toward the door, asking her to step away.

Belle gave a nod, and he went ahead. “I’ll be right back,” she told Rummond before letting her hand slip away from his arm. She followed Graham out into the hallway, just beyond the ward doors.

“Has he been hallucinating?” Graham asked once the door Belle stepped through had closed. “Can you tell?”

“I can’t be positive, but I don’t _think_ so?” She hoped she’d be able to tell, but with his silence…

“He was already headed into a downswing,” Graham observed, perhaps reminding her of it.

Belle crossed her arms, looking down at them. “I know. He was. And this pushed him right to the bottom.” 

“How did his father get onto the ward in the first place?”

“Visitor’s day. He walked right in.” She frowned. “Nurse Mills sent me off to the laundry, and he’d been here for a while when I got back.” She worried at the center of her lower lip. Heaven knew what the man had said before she was in a position to hear.

“Things got out of hand?”

“Oh, no. I think he accomplished precisely what he came to do,” Belle said with no small amount of bitterness to her voice. Her jaw tightened in remembered anger. “I knew he and his father weren’t on good terms, but I didn’t understand the extent of it.”

“You aren’t at any fault,” Graham assured her. “Place blame where it’s due.”

“I’m aware. That doesn’t make it any easier.”

Graham was at a loss. Nothing he could say or do would help - not for Belle or for Captain Gold, either. He’d learned as much over his years on this ward. Still, he asked, “Is there anything I can do?”

Belle shrugged. “Hug?” she said after a while.

He took a step nearer and gathered her close, crossed arms and all, wrapping her up in an embrace. Her stature put her just at chest height, and he could feel her exhaustion as she leaned against him. She still had her night shift ahead of her. Graham decided he’d go and find Gus once he had finished here. Gus was usually amenable to switching shifts, and he would be able to keep an eye on her that way.

“Better?” he asked when she leaned away again.

“A little.” Belle’s throat ached with the need to cry, but now was not the time.

Graham laid a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll tell Archie how he is.”

“Tell him we’ll have Rummond in with him as soon as we can. He just isn’t-”

“He knows. It’s all right.” Graham gave her an encouraging smile, and she watched him go until he’d disappeared into the foyer.

She remained in the hallway for a minute longer, eyes closed, breathing. Every time it crossed her mind, she was horrified all over again by the way Rummond’s father had treated him. The insults, the outright vitriol she’d heard him pour onto his son kept echoing through her thoughts. She couldn’t imagine what it was doing to Rummond. Though she may not have been happy with the way her own father sometimes dismissed her opinions, at least she could be sure that his intentions were good. She didn’t understand how _any_ parent could regard their child the way Malcolm did. And she couldn’t help but wonder - would this downswing have lain Rummond so low had he never come around?

Belle smoothed the front of her apron and turned to go back inside.

The only sounds on the ward were the click of silverware and the footsteps and quiet murmur of nurses checking in on their patients. Finding Rummond exactly where she’d left him, she did the same, making a circuit of her beds before returning to him.

She took a place in the small space left between Rummond and the edge of the mattress. He was curled in on himself beneath the blankets, seeming to try to be as far from the doors as he could be without leaving the bed. She wondered if he might have taken up residence in the storage room, if he could get there.

Belle touched his cheek. His flinch was small, but she felt it. “He’s wrong,” she said, knowing that he would understand who she meant. “Everything he said to you was hateful and wrong.”

She’d had some variant of this one-sided conversation with him every day since Malcolm’s visit, trying to contradict the things she’d heard from the sorry excuse for a human that called itself his father.

“Rummond, your mother would be proud of you. She gave you her family name, you told me. That means something, giving that before she had to go. She would be _so_ proud of you for fighting so hard. You are not worthless. You…” She sighed.

He pulled back, moving his face away from her touch and turning it in toward his pillow. So firmly buried was he that she worried whether he could breathe.

She leaned close again, so that she could whisper near his ear. “You are worth everything.”

Rummond turned his head, taking his face out of the pillow so that he could see her. He met her gaze with confused eyes that flooded suddenly with tears, and she saw his breath falter.

She moved from the bed, squatting down next to him where she could look him in the face, and where he could see her, as well. “I wish you would tell me how you feel, what’s happening in there.”

His thoughts battled themselves. He wanted to tell her that he was all right, he was fine, to stop her from worrying over him. She shouldn’t worry over _him._ There was another part of him that wanted to tell her how resoundingly _not_ all right he was. The conflict stalled his mind. His face drew, distraught.

“I wish I could help you more,” Belle said softly. She lifted a hand from the edge of the bed, touching the corner of his mouth where it turned downward, then brushed his hair back from his temple. “I wish I could fix this. All of it.”

Rummond only looked at her. He wanted to talk to her, but… Even the ‘simple’ concept of talking about any of it crashed in, exhausting him before he could open his mouth. He felt the warmth of her fingertips as they grazed his skin. She was a comfort, her presence, and her touch, and her voice. He tried _so_ hard to smile for her, to make her feel better. It fell disgustingly flat.

“It’s all right. Tomorrow will be better, perhaps,” she said. Her breath was warm when it washed over his cheek. “Do you think you could drink a bit of tea?”

Rummond managed a small shake of his head. The thought of it made the sourness of bile threaten.

“Is there _anything_ you think you might be able to eat? Anything at all?”

An answering grimace pulled at his face, and a frown of concern affected her own in response.

“Four days, Rummond. You can’t go on starving this way,” she told him quietly. “You need to eat.”

He looked at her. Didn’t she think he wanted to? Didn’t she know how he wished that he could?

Belle had done her best to avoid pushing him too hard, where eating was concerned. The longer he went, though, the more frightening it became.

“I need you to try. I don’t want to report it. I don’t want to have to put you through that. You know that I don’t.” She stroked the back of her fingers over the stubble along the line of his jaw. He badly needed a shave, as well. “I’m not threatening you. This isn’t a threat, sweetheart, all right? But one way or another, we need to get food in you, or you’ll only grow weaker and weaker, and-” She shook her head, the lump in her throat and the look of pleading that he gave her forcing her to stop.

“I’m sorry.” She kissed her fingertips and touched them to his lips. “I’m going to make a cup of tea for you. Just in case.”

Belle excused herself quickly, passing the turn in the corridor she needed to make to go down to the kitchen. Walking straight through, she let herself into the nurses’ washroom and locked the door. The storage room was closer, but she couldn’t go there by herself, not as things were.

She’d already begun to fall apart as she turned the sink’s cold tap on and sat down on the toilet lid, dropping her head into her hands. With no one to see or hear, she allowed herself a good, hard cry.

There was nothing more she could _do._ She made sure that he was comfortable as possible, she kept him company every spare moment that she could, and she hoped that he felt safe. It was all she could do, and it didn’t seem enough. She couldn’t magically put food in his stomach. The thought of reporting him to be force fed was a dreadful one. But what other choice was there?

If he didn’t eat _something_ tomorrow, she would tell Dr. Whale. She would have to. She’d only just found Rumond, and she wouldn’t lose him.

Belle swept tears off her cheeks and wiped wet hands on her apron. She went to the sink. Leaning over the bowl of it to catch water in her hands, she lowered her face into them. Twice more, and she felt calm enough to leave the washroom.

The familiar ritual of making a cup of tea soothed her nerves a little. She had no illusion that Rummond would feel like drinking it simply because she’d brought it - not really - but as she’d told him, just in case. So she overdid the cream and sugar as she’d gotten into a habit of doing for him, and she carried the cup and saucer carefully back to the ward.

Gardner was sorting emptied dinner trays back into their spaces on the trolley when she went in. The room had regained a bit of noise and lost a nurse. It was still a fair few minutes from the end of shift, but Belle recalled Ruby mentioning that she and Dr. Whale were going to take in a show. It wasn’t often that the two of them had a real, on-the-town outing, but Ruby had somehow managed to pry him away from the hospital.

She set the cup on Rummond’s table, where he could reach it if he wanted. Still he hadn’t moved. Belle watched him from behind for a moment, the only thing breaking his stillness the slight movement of his side as he breathed. She caught Jefferson looking in the same direction, unease in his own features. They traded a look when he saw her there, before he went back to the book he held half open.

“I brought your tea,” she said, taking her seat back again. “I thought- if you decided that you want it.”

He didn’t look to her this time, though she could tell that his eyes were open. She reached for his hand as much to comfort herself as to comfort him. His fingers were cold, and after a moment, she made herself let go so that she could pull the blanket’s corner up to tuck around them. She found herself making wishes in abundance lately, but she wished that she could get him to hold his tea cup. It would warm him a little, at least, the way he held it to his chest. 

She went back to petting his hair, letting the fine strands of it slide through her fingers. She could swear there was more grey than had been when he first arrived, but she’d seen nurses and servicemen alike lose the color from their hair with stress and nerves.

“I know it’s difficult for you to fight, just now,” she said, her fingers sinking deeper to run along the back of his neck. Belle felt him draw a deeper breath, and it left him on a sigh. It was some manner of response, and it was encouraging. She leaned in, whispering close, “But that’s all right, because I’m going to fight beside you. And I don’t give up.”


	61. Responsibility

If she went home on those days and gathered Neal onto her lap more often or hugged him more tightly, perhaps it was only because she wanted to reassure him that his father would be all right. She’d caught sadness on his face again too often lately, but he seemed to delight in the extra attention. If she found comfort in holding him, as well, then that was beside the point.

Tucking him into bed had become a bit more difficult since Malcolm’s little social call. He needed more time to be talked down, and he’d taken to asking for a story before the light could be turned off. He had begun to bring the slightly tatty teddy bear - the one that had once been hers - with him into bed. Belle was certain that he sensed something a bit off.

Unable to sleep for her worries, she reached to turn the key on her lamp, sitting up. It wasn’t time for her to get ready for work, but near enough that going to sleep would be useless, assuming she _could_ have. She pulled her dressing gown on and left her door open so that she would be able to see enough to get to the stairs. A cup of warm milk was what she needed. With a little nutmeg and cardamom, the way Mrs. Potts used to make it for her. As she made her way toward the kitchen, she wondered if it might be something that Rummond could drink, when he was able to.

She could see the light shining into the hallway from the kitchen before she got there. Surely Mrs. Potts hadn’t already risen?

As she neared the door, she heard soft conversation and a very distinct giggle.

“Is that the last of them?” she heard her father ask. “We’ll have to sweet talk Mrs. Potts into making another batch. You may have more luck there than I, my boy.”

“Your turn,” Neal said, sounding as if his mouth was full.

Belle peered around the doorframe. Her father and Neal sat on opposite sides of the detached counter in the center of the kitchen, a draughts board positioned between them. The plate that had been piled with raspberry thimble cookies after dinner sat nearby, now occupied by only a small drift of crumbs.

She pulled her dressing gown more closely around her before going in. “Has the insomnia bug bitten us all tonight?”

Neal’s gaze jumped to her, and he gave her a jam-cornered smile.

“Apparently so,” her father said, lifting one of his pieces to move it a diagonal square ahead. “I thought I’d see if a nip might help, and I caught this one inching toward your room.”

“Ah, yes, I _have_ heard that cookies are an instant cure for sleeplessness,” Belle teased.

“We did need something to go along with a cup of milk.” Her father grinned over at her. “There’s a bit left in the pan. It should be hot, still.”

Belle found just enough remaining for a good cup. She took down the custard glass mug with the rose glazed on the side that she’d drank her cocoa and warmed milk from since she was small enough to need help onto the counter stools. The little tin of cardamom and an acorn-shaped nutmeg holder were in the cupboard next to the stove, as always. She shook a bit of one and filed a bit of the other into the milk, swirling it around in the pan before pouring it up.

She sat next to Neal, and he leaned to sniff at the wafting steam. “Want a taste?” she asked, and he nodded. She checked that his smaller cup was empty, and poured a little into it.

“Our boy here is catching on quickly,” Maurice said, a bit of pride in his voice. “I might try him at chess next.”

Neal ducked his head a little, but his smile was a wide one as he reached across to move one of his pieces. He picked it up, looking from the board to Belle’s Papa.

“Go on,” Maurice encouraged. “What moves do you see?”

Neal jumped one of the unpainted pieces over one of his opponent’s black ones, capturing it.

“There you go!” her father praised. His eyes skipped over the board for a moment before he made a move of his own.

Belle could see three possible moves her father might have made, and he’d taken the one easiest on Neal. She hid her smile in a long sip of milk.

“Papa,” she began while Neal considered his options. “Is there a way I might watch some of the newsreels that were going around during the war? Does anyone still have them?”

He hummed thoughtfully. “Well, there is a cinema owner out in Harwich who owes me a favor. He might have kept those he put on. Why do you ask?”

“I’m curious. I’ve never actually seen any.”

“It’s no wonder. You were on the other side of them.”

Belle thumbed a drip of milk away from the rim of her cup. She’d never been caught on camera, when journalists brought them around the field hospitals she worked in, but she had never wanted to be. “Do you think you could remind him of that favor? There are some I’d like to see.”

“Of course. That’s near a three hour drive, though, my dear,” he cautioned. “And another three back.”

It would take an entire day, between the travel and the watching. “I’ll go on a day off sometime soon.”

“Hm. Make use of the car as you will. Horatio will appreciate the day out, I’m sure.”

Belle waited until Neal had decided on a move and nudged the piece into place before she gave a gentle tug to the sleeve of his pajamas. “Perhaps some of us should think about going back to bed,” she suggested.

Neal appeared to consider the idea. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, opened them, and then closed them again.

“What are you doing?” Belle asked.

He looked up at her. “Checking to see if I can go back to sleep.”

She grinned. “And what conclusion have you come to?”

“I think I can,” he said, nodding. He moved carefully off his knees, sliding down from the stool.

“I’ve an appointment in a few hours, myself,” Maurice agreed. “I’ll set the board off where it won’t be disturbed, and we’ll finish our game when you’re back from school.”

With a big nod, Neal followed Belle to the sink, stretching to place his cup in next to hers. He reached up for her hand when they stepped into the dark hallway, keeping close on the way up the stairs. 

“Can I have another tuck in?” he asked as they reached his door.

He let go of her hand to stretch up and turn on the light, and she stroked a hand over the back of his hair before he ran across to the bed. “I wouldn’t think of putting you back to bed without one.”

Neal crawled under the covers, pulling the teddy bear that had been his sleeping companion for the last few days from beneath them. She leaned over him, bringing the quilt up as he laid down.

“Do you need another story?” she offered. It wasn’t as if she were going back to bed, herself. She could take the time.

He shook his head, though, watching her with eyes the very color of his father’s. Belle’s heart twinged.

“Are you sad?” he asked.

She was stunned for a moment. “I’m… concerned,” she finally replied, sitting next to him when she saw that this wouldn’t be quick.

His voice was softer when he went on. “About Papa? Is he okay?”

“Your Papa still isn’t feeling well, but he’ll be all right,” she assured, though her own certainty was nowhere near so solid.

“Can I go see him?”

“Not today, darling,” she told Neal, and it was perhaps the tenth time they’d had the same exchange since Sunday past. 

He frowned, and she touched the teddy bear’s embroidered black nose to change his focus. “Has he told you his name?”

Neal raised his head to look at the bear, then looked curiously back to her. “He has a name?”

“Oh, most things have a name. His is Philippe.” Belle smiled, brushing the little boy’s hair away from his forehead. “My Mama told me his name a very long time ago.”

 _“Fleep,”_ Neal murmured sleepily, hugging the bear to him with one arm. Before he could drift off, he squirmed around to turn onto his side. “Where is your Mama?”

Belle hesitated. It wasn’t a good idea to get into that particular discussion, she decided, the way his thoughts dwelt upon his father. “We’ll talk about that another day. You should sleep, and I should get ready for work.”

She knew he’d have put up more of an argument, had he not been so drowsy. His eyelids drooped, though, and she tugged the blanket higher to cover his shoulder. 

“Good night,” she whispered, easing up from the bed, and he gave a little hum in echo.

She made sure that the air coming off the furnace vent was sufficiently warm before leaving Neal’s room, switching off the light and turning the door handle so that it shut silently. It wasn’t _so_ far from the time she usually rose to get ready. She went back to her bedroom, deciding to go ahead and dress, hoping that Dr. Whale might be in early.

Belle could hear Mrs. Potts just beginning putter around in her room when she went back downstairs. She added a scarf to her coat before leaving through the kitchen’s back door, winding it snug around her neck before taking her bicycle and walking it away from the wall so that she could hop on. She’d be forced to accept a drive to the hospital every day soon, if the wind’s bite were any sign of what was to come of the winter. 

She reflected on how Neal had been asking to see his father during the week, so badly wanting to see him in the midst of everything. That was something she and Rummond needed to discuss, however they might discuss it just now. She wasn’t certain whether Neal should make his usual Sunday visit, finding herself of two minds about it. Seeing his son did Rummond’s heart and mind good. How would it affect either of them to see him in his current condition, though? Her own feelings about it aside, it would be Rummond who made the decision. They would need to communicate about it in some way, if he continued on unspeaking.

Her worry had come to pass - he hadn’t eaten again the previous day. She had hoped, but she hadn’t expected it. Lack of sleep and food had begun to cause his heart to beat irregularly. The change wasn’t terribly significant, but it would grow worse if something didn’t move for the better. Belle tried to prepare herself to tell Dr. Whale.

Nurse Boyd, spending her night shift at the front desk as always, looked up when Belle came through the door. She appeared to have been caught at napping. “You’re in early,”she observed through a jaw-cracking yawn.

“Will you come and tell me when Dr. Whale arrives?” Belle asked, shedding her scarf and pulling her coat buttons open.

Nurse Boyd nodded, turning the wick of her lantern up a bit. “Of course. He won’t be in for the better part of an hour, though.”

“Just tell me as soon as he’s here, please,” she said again. She wouldn’t chance Ashley knowing where she kept her purse - she would have to put it in the drawer later, once Mal came on shift - but she went through to put away the rest of her things.

The corridor leading to the east wing was dim, but even had she not known the hospital as well as she knew the lines of her palm, she could see enough by Ashley’s lantern to get there. She slipped quietly onto the ward and went directly to Rummond.

She didn’t know whether he was awake, though chances were good for it. If he did happen to sleep, she didn’t want to wake him. Belle walked around to the other side of his bed. The moon was half full, and the ward wasn’t pitch black. Perhaps… 

The soft light reflected off his eyes as he shifted them toward her. She sat on the edge of his bed, curling her arm around him to rest her hand at his back so that she could rub short strokes between his shoulderblades. “Try to sleep,” she encouraged. “I’ll be here for a while.”

His eyes closed, but the rhythm of his breathing didn’t change; she was uncertain whether he slept at all. Nurse Boyd came in as the windows had just begun to lighten. Belle motioned for her to stop just inside the doors. She stood, letting her hand lift away from Rummond’s back, and he opened his eyes again.

“I’ll be back in a while.” She touched the apple of his cheek, finding the skin there a little too cool, and tucked his blankets more closely around him. “I have an errand, and I’m not sure how long it might take.”

Nurse Boyd had resumed her station by the time Belle passed the desk on her way to the south wing. Her stomach twisted itself into burning knots, and the closer she got to Dr. Whale’s office, the worse it felt. She had to make herself knock at the door.

“Come in,” he called, and she turned the cold handle, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. He was still sorting papers between his briefcase and his blotter. “Nurse French. What is it that you need?”

Belle stood before his desk, hands behind her back, her posture stiff and formal as she’d been her early days in the VAD. She forced the words from her mouth. “Captain Gold hasn’t eaten in days.”

“How many?” Dr. Whale asked, his full attention now on her.

She frowned. She should have reported him already. “He had tea and toast on Sunday morning.”

“And today is…” He looked at his desk calendar, obviously having no idea.

“Friday,” she supplied quietly.

He raised his eyebrows. “That would be five full days, Nurse French, as of this morning.”

“Yes, doctor.”

“You realize Captain Gold has had to be force fed before.”

“Yes, doctor. I realize. I kept hoping he might eat of his own accord.”

“Nurse French, I understand that you sympathize a great deal with your patients. Your reputation does not go unnoticed.” Dr. Whale folded his hands on his desk, giving her a look less stern than she expected. “You don’t wish to see them suffer. Neither do I. I assure you, I know that force feeding is unpleasant, but sometimes it is a _necessary_ unpleasantness.”

Belle knew that Dr. Whale made sense, but she couldn’t appreciate the lecture just now. What she’d done in delaying the report of Rummond’s starvation was stupid, and it had endangered him - she was more than well aware. What she needed now was to correct it.

“Yes, Dr. Whale, I know.”

He began rifling through the large drawer of his desk for the appropriate papers, filling them out quickly when he found them. “I’ll see to it when the orderlies begin arriving. He’ll likely be taken out sometime after breakfast. As soon as possible. Sign here.”

She stepped forward, taking the fountain pen he offered and adding her signature below his at the bottom of the order as the reporting nurse. The line wobbled in her anxious hand. “Thank you, doctor.”

“Next time, please do report patients in a timely manner when they stop eating?” 

Belle hoped that there would be no next time. In the event that there _was,_ however, she knew there was no way she would allow it to go on for so long. This was too much, too frightening, to let it happen to Rummond again.

She left Dr. Whale’s office with an odd combination of relief and dread. If it turned out that Rummond ate from his breakfast tray, then the order could be easily rescinded. The chances of that, though… 

Belle checked her watch and went to clock in before going back to the ward. Ashley had gone, but someone had turned the ward lights on when she returned, and many of the patients were rousing from their beds. Lieutenant Hargreaves had his blanket pulled over his head, but save for him and Rummond, the rest of the men in her area were sitting up, at the least. Reyes was on his way to the washroom, and he hurried past Belle to be the first in, but Jezek beat him to it.

“Rummond,” she began, standing at his bedside for a moment. “Do you need to visit the washroom? Graham is in or will be soon. He and I, or one of us, we can help you in.”

He turned his face slightly away from her and back again - less motion than the day before, but still managing a shake of his head. 

She sat, cupping her hand to his cheek, and leaned close to tell him what the day would bring. “I’ve told Dr. Whale how long it’s been since you’ve eaten,” she said, watching his face for a response. “I waited as long as I could. Longer than I should have. I’m sorry.”

Rummond’s eyes flooded with fear, and for an instant, she wished that she could take back the report. It would do him no good at all, though, even if she could. Dr. Whale was far from her favorite person, and she doubted some of his medical opinions, but he was right in this. This was necessary.

“I’m sorry,” she told him again, running the pad of her thumb along his cheekbone in an attempt at comfort. “They’ll take you down after breakfast has been brought around. I’ll make sure that Graham is with them.”

His eyes closed, gathering tears squeezing from the corners.

“I’m going to stay with you for as long as I can. If you want me to.” Belle told herself that she wouldn’t be hurt if he wanted her to leave him alone for a while. She wouldn’t force her company on him, and she couldn’t blame him if he _were_ upset with her.

But he tilted his head enough that she could feel his cheek press against her palm. He didn’t want her to go. Her eyes stung, and she blinked quickly.

“I know you’re fighting as best you can. Neal and I, we’re both waiting for you on the other side of it. No matter what. I want you to know that, and he would, too.” 

She was struck with the need to kiss him, but there and then, she couldn’t. There were too many people milling around, nurses coming on shift, and God only knew when Nurse Mills might come onto the ward. She settled for touching his cheek and hair, making her best effort to calm him.

Half an hour passed before Gardner brought the breakfast trays in, setting Rummond’s at the end of the bed after a few moments of expectant and impatient staring. Blessedly, the head nurse didn’t come traipsing in to complicate things further, and Belle was still there when Graham came to fetch him out.

“He knows what I’m here for?” the orderly asked.

“I’ve told him.” She moved from the bedside as Graham walked over. “Dr. Whale didn’t send anyone with you?”

“I told him I could handle Captain Gold myself. Quinn was the only other orderly free, and…” He shook his head and cast Belle a wry look.

“Rummond?” Belle folded his blankets and the sheet beneath back, beginning to uncover him. “We’re going to get you sitting up first, all right?”

Graham took Captain Gold’s slippers from the near side of the bed and his robe from where it had been folded and draped over the footboard, and he came around to help. “Hounding you about slippers yet again, aren’t I?” he said.

Belle slid a hand between Rummond’s arm and the mattress, and he gave a soft, short groan, closing his eyes as he tensed at the touch in knowledge of what they were doing.

“I know,” she whispered, struggling to steel herself against his responses for as long as it took to get him out of the room. For now, he had to be her patient, and she had to be his nurse. She’d grown too accustomed to the blurring of their positions, and it hurt to go back even temporarily. “I know how you feel about this, and I’m sorry it has to be done. The sooner Graham takes you, though, the sooner it will be over with, and you’ll be back.”

Graham placed his things on the bed, reaching out to fold the blankets farther back. He curled a hand around the Captain’s other arm, and between Belle and himself, they brought him upright. He eased Captain Gold’s legs over, so that he sat up on the side of the bed.

“There we are,” Graham said, only letting go when he was certain that Captain Gold would stay there. He knelt one knee to the floor, lifting his patient’s feet one at a time to get slippers on him. 

Belle combed her fingers fussily through the flattened side of his hair, and he turned his eyes quite purposefully away from her. Graham stood and wrapped a hand around Rummond’s arm again, and she moved to do the same on the other side. With Graham’s help, it wasn’t at all difficult to get him to his feet. She felt him shake, and she couldn’t be sure whether it might be a tremor of nerves or a cold shiver. Either way, she tugged his robe around him, overlapping the front and tying the belt. He wouldn’t want to go off the ward without being as put together as possible. 

“It’ll be all right,” she told him, telling herself, as well. “Graham will take care of you.”

“His cane?” Graham asked.

Rummond lifted his arms, wrapping them around himself as tightly as he could manage. He shook his head slowly, just enough that Belle understood him to refuse it. She wondered if he could handle the cane enough to make it useful, the condition he was in at the moment.

“Do you want me to come along?” she asked. She had never been able to stomach watching a force feeding beginning to end, but if Rummond wanted her there, she made up her mind that she could.

Graham looked to Captain Gold, who turned his head away from her. “I think it might be better you wait here,” he said. 

Belle tried not to worry how angry he would be with her. Or how he would resent her for sending him to be fed, herself. Or for taking what bit of control he _did_ have away from him. She tried to concentrate on the small measure of strength he would gain from having food in his stomach, and how it would bolster him. If his downswing broke soon, this might even be the last time he had to be sent to be fed. She concentrated on that as Graham turned Rummond and led him away.

Graham walked with his patient close to his side, one arm around his back to take his weight should he need, his other hand securely around the Captain’s upper arm to steady him. Progress was slow, but Graham’s patience knew few bounds, and he went at the pace Captain Gold could make.

Quinn waited at the examination room door, stepping forward as Graham approached.

“No. Leave him to me,” Graham said, a bit of warning in his tone. He refused to have a repeat performance of the last time they were here.

Rummond went with Humbert’s help to the examination table, and the orderly helped him onto it. He wasn’t sure he could have resisted had he wanted to. His limbs felt weak, and the rest of him felt useless and hollow. He laid back when Humbert guided him to, and they draped him with a sheet in preparation to bind him. All he could do was wait for Dr. Whale to get it over with.

“Captain Gold,” the doctor greeted, moving his cloth mask to cover his mouth. “We’ve been here before. You and I both know how to proceed.”

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

Belle changed Rummond’s bedclothes, sending everything from the bottom sheet to the blankets down to the laundry, and had Nurse Halloran help her in turning the mattress. She made certain to layer the correct number of blankets back onto the bed when she re-made it, worrying how cold he would be when he returned. Nurse Halloran, still training in Belle’s section of beds, had taken the initiative to deliver morning medications to those who required them. She reported back that everyone was doing as well as possible, and Belle found that she had nothing to do besides wait.

She sat on his bedside, castigating herself both for reporting him and for taking so long to do so. It didn’t make a great deal of sense, but she felt guilt in both directions.

Nurse Mills came onto the ward, and Belle’s insides felt as if they turned themselves over. She didn’t want to suffer the head nurse’s barbs and snares today of all days. Nurse Mills apparently looked for Nurse Nolan, though, and left when she’d found her. Belle breathed a sigh of relief, and she attempted to give the appearance of being busy.

Jefferson left his bed after breakfast trays were retrieved, and she went over to straighten his table and sheets. She was glad to have no emergencies or situations very serious to attend to, sure that she couldn’t keep her mind on much of anything in her worry. She finished before he returned from the washroom, and he cast around his space in surprise before giving her a curious look.

Belle turned her watch to check the time. Hadn’t it been long enough? Shouldn’t Rummond have been back by now?

An hour and a half after she’d watched Graham take Rummond off the ward, they returned. 

Rummond looked so much worse for the wear, wilted and defeated, and she held her hands to her chest to staunch the ache behind her breastbone. He might never feel the same about her. He might hate her, now. But _he wouldn’t starve to death._

Graham guided him back to his bed, sitting him carefully down onto the space on the side that Belle had turned back to be ready for him.

“How did he fare?” she asked, moving to help get Rummond out of his robe. He shivered through and through, and this time she was certain what caused it. She gave his upper arm a brisk rub, and he ducked his head a bit farther.

“He did well,” Graham said. “He didn’t fight it. The procedure went as well as it could go.”

“Good. That’s good,” Belle said under her breath. She waited until Graham had Rummond’s slippers off and his legs brought up onto the bed before she guided him to lie back. He didn’t resist her, and she wasn’t sure whether that was a good sign or a bad one, all considered.

Rummond moved, changing position on his own to curl onto his side as she pulled his covers over him. She would have him move onto his back again once he’d warmed through, but she couldn’t see his decision to turn over as anything but _good,_ when he had barely seemed to move at all over the last few days.

She spoke a thought before it slipped her mind. “Graham, you’ve shaved him before, haven’t you?”

Graham replaced his patient’s robe and slippers where he’d found them. “I did, once.”

“Would you mind doing it again? Later this evening?” she asked. “I’ve never done it, and I don’t want him to look as if he’s been had at by a cheese grater.”

“I don’t mind at all.” He reached to straighten the turn of the sheet on the side of the bed where he stood. “Let me know when.”

Belle nodded, and Graham reached across to give her a lingering pat on the back before leaving them to it.

Rummond’s nose was irritated, his eyes rimmed in red, and she felt _awful_ for him. She wanted nothing more than to gather him into her arms, but she settled for cradling her hand against his face again. Her palm pressed to the prickly stubble at his cheek.

“I’m so sorry,” Belle told him, speaking softly enough that only he could hear. “I’m sorry, but I shouldn’t have waited so long, too. I hope you can forgive m-”

He shook his head, turning it so that he looked right at her, and for a moment she feared that he meant he wouldn’t. Slowly, though, he drew his hand from beneath the blankets, reaching for the hand she held in her lap. She gave it to him.

Rummond brought her hand to his lips, kissing her palm, and she found warmth in his eyes.

His gesture broke the flimsy wall she’d worked so hard to keep from crumbling. No longer able to hold it back, Belle tucked her chin to her chest and began to cry as he pressed another kiss to her skin.


	62. Little Adventurer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt - _anonymousnerdgirl said: "Do you think it would be outside of the realm of possibility for Mrs Potts to take the matter in hand and suggest Lumiere take Neal on a Sunday outing only for Neal to sneak his way to the hospital and cause a mini uproar. I’m a sucker for BatB parallels."_

She’d waited until Friday afternoon, giving Rummond time to rest after his ordeal before broaching the subject of Neal’s impending visit. Kneeling at the far side of his bed so that she could see his face and gauge his reaction, Belle had asked, keeping her own influence out of it. Rummond’s mouth had drawn in a frown, at first. His lips parted, and for a moment, she was sure that she would finally hear his voice again. But he only took an unsteady breath and gave a slow shake of his head, his frown worsening into a pained grimace. She’d asked once more, clarifying, asking whether he was certain. Rummond agreed with her, for a given extent of agreeing, that Neal would perhaps be better served to take a Sunday off from visiting.

She sat at the kitchen counter while Mrs. Potts put the finishing touches on a small apricot torte meant for the night’s dessert. She had yet to change from her uniform, only her cap unpinned and laying in front of her. Her path in had stopped with the counter stool.

“I don’t know what to tell him,” Belle said, mid-ramble. “Neal will be so upset, but he _shouldn’t_ see his father this way. Should he? He’s been looking forward to it all week. And he knows enough to worry - a child his age shouldn’t _have_ worries, much less about a parent.” She raised a hand, pressing her fingertips firmly against her temple.

Mrs. Potts waited until Belle lost momentum. “Don’t tell him,” she began, and Belle looked up to give her a dubious stare. “Not tonight. There’s no sense in ruining the boy’s entire weekend.”

“And if he asks straight out?”

“Put him off.”

“He’s a shrewd child. He’ll not be fooled long,” Belle reasoned.

Using a sharp paring knife, the cook shaved curls from a hardened pool of chocolate on a piece of butcher’s paper. “Put him off cleverly,” she said, as though it were simple as that.

“When am I meant to tell him, then? Saturday night when he’s being tucked in, ruining his sleep? Sunday morning? ‘By the by, you aren’t going to be seeing your Papa today after all!’” Belle frowned, picking up one of her bobby pins and snapping the bit of metal together.

“Haven’t eaten today, have you?” Mrs. Potts asked. “You’re sarcastic when you fast too long. Always have been.”

Mrs. Potts would never have _asked_ for an apology from one of her employers, but Belle knew the set of her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said, sighing. “This week hasn’t been an easy one.”

“Leave the boy abed Sunday morning. I’ll tell him when I wake him.” Mrs. Potts set her knife down, turning away to the stove to stir something. “That way, you’ll be long gone and I can set him about some distraction, and you needn’t go to work with those eyes of his on your conscience.”

Belle felt a bit badly about accepting the easy solution of not having to be the one to tell him. He would still be upset. The only difference was that she wouldn’t be there to see it.

“Lumiere,” Mrs. Potts said. The butler raised an eyebrow at being addressed with hardly a foot in the kitchen. “You’ll take young Neal for an outing on Sunday, won’t you?”

It might have been posed as a question, but the cook’s tone made it clear that it was an instruction. Belle pressed her lips together over her smile.

“Last I looked, I _was_ still a butler and not a governess,” Lumiere said.

“The house can do without its high and mighty butler for half a day. I rather doubt it will all fall down around our ears while you’re out,” Mrs. Potts went on. “You can take him to the children’s playground, over near the bandstand. Then to the grocer’s, to see if they’ve any sweets set out. He’ll need a special treat of some sort.”

The butler sniffed. “And if I have plans of my own?”

Mrs. Potts turned her head slowly to look up at him. “You can take Babette along, if you must.”

Lumiere was suddenly very interested in fetching down the serving dishes, and Mrs. Potts’ attention turned back to dinner preparations.

Friday night and Saturday came and went, and Neal hadn’t _asked_ about going to work with Belle the next morning. He did, however, assume. He talked about his father, about their customary picnic, about how he’d drawn the kestrel in the back garden to take along. He went to sleep with a smile on his face, telling Belle how he wanted to tell his Papa that he’d made a friend at school. It was almost more than she could stand.

Early Sunday morning, long before dawn could break, she sat at her vanity to secure her hair back into its everyday bun and pin her cap in place. She considered whether it was yet cold enough to wear her newer petticoat - the blue and white plaid one that Mrs. Potts had harangued her into buying - beneath the woolen navy one she already had on. Her legs positively froze on the way to work in the mornings, and they’d been getting cold again toward the end of the day. She decided she might as well.

She’d just done with wrangling the thing into place and straightening her skirt when there came a little tap at her door. By now it was a familiar sound, and on this particular morning, it made Belle cringe.

“Come in,” she called, sitting down again to put on her shoes.

Neal stuck his head in, peering around the door at her before he went into the room. “Nobody woke me up,” he said, pulling at the front of his pajama top as he walked over to her.

Belle saw a wary expression on his face. She sighed, holding a hand out to encourage him closer. It would be her telling him, then, after all. “Darling, come here. We need to talk a little.”

He stepped within arm’s reach, and she caught his hand to tow him the rest of the way. “About today?” he murmured quietly, frowning.

She’d been too relieved when Mrs. Potts decided to tell him. She knew that _she_ should have been the one to say it, and she supposed it was only right that it had come back around to her. “There’s a change in plans… You won’t be going with me this morning.”

Neal gave her a baleful look. His hand in hers went limp with disappointment. “Why?”

“Your Papa is still feeling poorly.” She reached up, running a hand over his sleep-wild hair. “I don’t think today would be the best time for a visit.”

He turned his head a bit, looking almost sidelong at her. She knew how Rummond had done his best to hide it and hold together while his son was on the ward the past Sunday, but Neal had known something was wrong. It had been obvious in his behavior all week long. He was oddly intuitive for a little boy, and she was glad that it made for a sweetness in him rather than something more plotting.

“Papa doesn’t want me there,” Neal said, dropping his eyes away from hers.

At that, Belle lifted him onto her lap. He leaned against her, his head under her chin. “He does want you there,” she said, wrapping her arms around him. “But he’s ill, and he isn’t able to talk with you as he always does, you know? He wants to be able to talk and play with you, and he isn’t well enough to do that today.”

“That’s okay,” Neal told her, raising his head to look up at her. “I don’t have to talk and play. I can be quiet. I know how to be quiet.”

“I know you do, darling.” Belle hurt for him. He wanted _so_ badly to see his father. “Just for today, I think you might have more fun here.”

His expression went sad again, and she hugged him close, squeezing him. “Do you want to go back to bed? Or would you rather go to Mrs. Potts?” she asked. He needed some sort of choice, even if such a small one.

“Mrs. Potts,” he said, sounding more than a little defeated.

“All right. Let me get into my apron, and we’ll go and have her make a cup of cocoa. How does that sound?”

Neal nodded, sliding down from her lap when she opened her arms. He stayed nearby, watching as she made sure that her apron straps lay straight across her back and tied the cotton ribbons behind her, showing no interest in the candy as she stocked her pocket with her everyday paraphernalia. When she headed downstairs, he followed, and he climbed up to sit on the counter stool while she and Mrs. Potts talked quietly near the stove.

Nurse Belle left. He heard her bicycle rattle as she moved it to ride away, and his lower lip trembled with the thought that he wouldn’t be getting to see his Papa today. He put his head down on the countertop, pressing his cheek to the cold surface.

“Have you ever been to a playground, dear?” Mrs. Potts asked. She set a steaming cup half-filled with cocoa next to his head, hefting herself onto the stool beside him.

Neal sat up and had a long sniffle before he scooted the cup over in front of him. He shook his head.

“Well, you’re in for an interesting day. Lumiere is going to take you on a bit of an outing,” she said, giving his arm a gentle poke. “There’s a playground not terribly far from here. It’s got swings, a seesaw. There’ll likely be a handful of children there. Wouldn’t you like that?”

He had no interest in a playground or in any outing that didn’t involve the hospital, but he nodded and blew into his cup.

Mrs. Potts moved off the stool and began bustling around the kitchen, gathering things from this cupboard and that. “A little bird told me you’d like some more of those thimble cookies. How would you like to give me a hand?” she asked, bringing out a fresh jar of raspberry jam. Between herself and Lumiere, she would keep the boy busy today. Occupy his mind and hands, and perhaps he wouldn’t have time to dwell on missing a visit.

Neal sipped carefully at his cocoa. “Okay,” he agreed, though it lacked enthusiasm.

She brought a set of spoon and cup measures over, leaving them within his reach. “By the time we’ve gotten them finished, we can go up and get you dressed. You can take a box of them along to the playground.”

He helped to measure out butter, and Mrs. Potts gave him the thimble she had set aside on the windowsill specifically for baking, showing him how to make a small indention in the center of each little ball of dough. After a demonstration of just how much jam was to go in each, she let him finish out both sheets while she put together a bit of breakfast for him. Belle’s father was off on business for a few days, so it wouldn’t hurt for Neal to eat in the kitchen where he would have company. She sat with him in an attempt to coax him into more than a begrudging smile while he ate and the cookies baked, and had far less success at it than she’d hoped.

When the cookies were out, she took Neal back to his room to get him ready for the day. He remained quiet, though the bit of sullenness in him had worn away with cookie-making. By the time she’d gotten him bundled up and the glaze on the cookies had dried sufficiently to pack some of them up, the sun had risen high enough to melt the frost from the windows and lawn.

Lumiere stepped into the kitchen, and to his credit, he feigned at least as much cheerfulness as he’d displayed reluctance when Mrs. Potts originally gave him his orders. Babette was not far behind, flouncing into the room in a long, feathered-collar coat, having dispensed with her uniform on her day off. Her dark hair had been folded under and pinned to imitate a bob, and judging by the way she reached to check that it hadn’t fallen, she was unaccustomed to the style. It couldn’t have been more obvious that they were taking the opportunity to engage in a bit of courting, Mrs. Potts decided.

“Ready to go, Master Neal?” Babette asked in her sweet, chirpy lilt, leaning her arms on the counter next to him.

Neal shrugged, but he got down from the stool, taking the small tin box of thimble cookies with him.

“Have fun, dear,” Mrs. Potts told him, then looked to the butler. “If you can’t have him back by lunchtime, buy him something in town and I’ll reimburse you. Encourage him to play. And _be nice.”_

“He is always nice,” Babette replied, patting Lumiere’s cheek. She guided Neal along in front of them as they left the kitchen.

Mrs. Potts shook her head, mumbling under her breath in their wake, “Lord give me patience.”

The playground was a fine place, and there were perhaps a dozen other children there, as Mrs. Potts had promised. Neal didn’t _feel_ like playing, though. Lumiere and Babette sat on a bench at the edge of the playground along with a group of other grown-ups. He took the box of cookies and went to sit on an empty swing, dragging his feet to make small ruts in the sand beneath him.

He wanted to go back to the playground another time. Truly, he did. He thought he would like the swings very much, and it was nice to hear so much laughter, but today didn’t feel like a day meant for playing. He missed his Papa too much to feel light enough for it.

For a while, they watched him. Lumiere kept an eye on him and Babette sent him little waves. Less than an hour had they been there when he found them distracted. Neal wondered. He remembered the way they’d come to the playground, and he remembered the direction they went from Nurse Belle’s house on Sunday mornings. He was certain that he could find his way from there.

Lumiere was smiling in a way he usually didn’t, and Babette hid giggles behind her mittened hand, and while their attention was thoroughly taken by one another, Neal simply hopped down from the swing and walked the opposite way. The fence surrounding the playground was more decorative than functional. It was easy enough to climb between the metal rails and get himself on the other side. From there, it was barely a walk at all back to the street.

Neal walked a ways, and he was intent on walking all the way to the hospital, if he had to. The drive hadn’t been so very long. Nurse Belle rode her bicycle to work, too. It couldn’t be _that_ far.

When he got out to a proper road with people and automobiles, though, he was no longer sure. Everything looked different from inside Nurse Belle’s Papa’s car. He looked up at street signs, trying to remember whether he’d seen them on the way.

There was a small group of ladies ahead of him on the sidewalk, and he was wondering whether one of them might be able to tell him which way to go, when he caught sight of a pair of police helmets somewhere among them. They were all pointing and talking, seeming to be getting directions to a shop nearby. If the policemen could given directions to them, well, surely they could give some to him, too.

Neal waited politely for the ladies to go on their way. When they left in their little cluster, Neal was surprised to find that the helmets he’d seen were on the heads of another pair of ladies in skirted uniforms. He smiled. They would help him, he was sure of it! He gathered courage, knowing he could talk to them if it meant getting to his Papa.

He approached them and reached up, tugging at the hem of one of their tunics. “Excuse me?” he said. They both looked down at him as though they were surprised to see him, as well.

“Why, hello,” the taller of the two said. She bent down, and the smaller police woman followed suit.

“I need to go to Firefly Hospital,” Neal told them.

“Firefly Hospital?” the second asked.

“Oh,” said the first. “The war hospital?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Neal gave a firm nod. “It’s visitor’s day, and I’m supposed to be there.”

“Your father is there? Are those for him?” the second policewoman asked. She had blue eyes and a kind smile, and she reminded him a little of Nurse Belle.

Neal nodded again, adjusting the tin box where he held it under his arm.

“What about your mum - where is she?” asked the first. Her hair was blonde and seemed as if bits of it were attempting to escape from beneath the edges of her helmet.

The more questions they asked of him, the more he worried that perhaps he shouldn’t have approached them. He frowned, moving a step back. “My Mum went away.”

“All right,” the second said. “It’s all right. My Mum is gone, as well. My Auntie and Uncle took care of me. Can you tell me who takes care of you?”

“Nurse Belle. Mrs. Potts.” He took a deep breath, and it huffed right back out again. “I _need_ to go to the hospital. Please?” he asked, hoping that it would make a difference.

“Well, I believe we can get you there. Do you think you can ride on my handlebars?” the policewoman with blue eyes asked. When he nodded, she went on. “What is your name?”

He held the cookie box more tightly. “Neal Gold.”

“Constables Glinda Northrop and Dot Gale,” the first introduced, gesturing to herself and then to the policewoman beside her.

They stood, and he walked with them to the corner, where a pair of bicycles leaned against the street lamp. With some reassurance that they would be returned, Glinda placed his cookies in the basket behind her seat. Dot sat astride her bicycle and held it steady as she helped him to perch on her handlebars.

“Hold tight,” she told him as they set off. “Firefly isn’t too far.”

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

Rummond’s head felt too heavy to move. Every part of him felt as though it were leaden, but for some reason, particularly his head. He felt the need to bury it in his pillow and pretend that the ward wasn’t filled with people. He wanted quiet, and to be able to sleep for more than a few minutes at a stretch, and to not be _empty._ And he wanted to see his son, though that was solidly out of the question today.

Belle had told him how Neal reacted to the news that he couldn’t go along with her. She’d also told him of the plans they’d made for Neal for the day, to occupy him, and he was certain that his son’s day had taken a turn for the better by this time. He was very likely discovering the joy of a swingset at that very moment.

Right away this morning, not long after Belle set foot on the ward, she’d informed him that she wanted him to try and sit up for a while today. She may as well have told him he’d be climbing to the top of Ben Nevis this morning. It sounded about as apt to happen.

After breakfast had finished, she brought a cup of tea opaque with cream and so filled with sugar or honey that it would set his teeth on edge, he was sure. She’d eased his blankets down off his shoulder and patted his arm.

“Come on, now,” she urged gently. “You don’t have to put your feet off the edge, but I want your head out of that pillow.”

It took so much _effort,_ but with her kind prodding and a bit of help, he managed to get himself upright. Belle sat next to him. She gave him a few moments before beginning to nudge him to have a sip of tea. For the first time in a week, the mere idea of it didn’t turn his stomach, and so when she took the cup off his bedside table to offer it to him, he accepted it. For the most part, he cradled it against his chest, soaking up the heat that made its way through. He took a few sips, swallowing the oversweet tea with a difficulty that owed nothing to the actual taste of it. It was barely enough to tell that the cup had been drank from, but enough, he hoped, to stave off another force feeding.

He sat for perhaps half an hour, all told. Until the cup was no longer warm in his hands and he felt as if he’d made that climb of the Ben rather than simply propping himself up for thirty minutes. Belle smiled at him, not having the least disappointment for him when he gave the cup back and lay down again.

As far as Belle was concerned, it was a victory. He’d moved, and he had a _little_ something in his stomach - it was more than she had expected of the day. He’d returned to lying with his back to the doors, but yes, a small but definite victory.

She went about her regular duties, stopping by to check on him often. When she had more than only a moment or two to spare, she picked up his book and read a passage to him. She couldn’t be sure how much he absorbed; they would have to go back and see about that when he felt well again. For now, it seemed to help some little amount.

It wasn’t quite time for lunch when she turned away from having helped Commander Strand place padding over a blister being caused by the strap of his prosthesis, just in time to see Neal very obviously sneaking onto the ward.

Belle’s mouth fell open, and she hurried to the front before the little boy could take off in his father’s direction. He saw her, and he did an excellent imitation of a deer caught in headlamps, wide-eyed and stock still.

“Neal!” she whispered when she neared him. “How? What are you doing here?”

When she didn’t appear angry, his tongue loosened. “I came to see Papa.”

She shook her head, looking him over. His shoes were dusty, but he appeared otherwise just fine. “I thought Lumiere was going to take you out to the playground? Didn’t you want to go?”

The boy’s cheeks pinked, and he suddenly had trouble meeting her eyes. “We went.”

“Neal…” She squatted down, a suspicion developing. “How did you get here?”

His face reddened further. “I found some lady police and they brought me.”

“You found- Where did you find them?”

“On the street by the playground.” Neal squirmed a little.

“You left the playground _by yourself?_ And went into the street?” Belle’s heart lurched, and she thought she might have lost a few years off her life in that instant.

“I need to see Papa!” he said, a good mixture of sheepish and defiant.

Belle reached out and grabbed him to her, hugging him so tightly that he began to whine in discomfort.

“I can’t breathe,” he complained, and though she loosened her hold, she couldn’t let go for a bit longer.

When she finally allowed him to move back, he looked a little confused. “Neal, you are never, _ever_ to go anywhere outside without an adult along.”

“You said _every_ Sunday,” he reminded her. “Every single Sunday. That’s what you said.”

“I did. And I understand why you were upset that I didn’t bring you along today. But what you did was dangerous.” Belle cupped his face in her hands. “If it hadn’t been police you happened across-”

“They’re still here,” he said.

“The police who brought you?”

He nodded. “They said they would make sure I found my Papa.”

Belle sat back on her heels, rubbing a hand across her eyes. “All right. Well, you’ve found him, haven’t you? Go on and see him. And you stay _right_ beside him.”

Neal veered around her, and she gave an affectionate swat at his bottom before he was out of reach. He ran to his father’s bed, looking at Rummond’s back for a few seconds before walking more calmly around to the other side.

Belle stood and stepped out, going to see these policewomen who had escorted Neal. They were at the front desk, chatting with Nurse Lind. One turned to face her, and then the other, both with smiles on their faces. They looked nice enough.

“You’ve quite the adventurer on your hands, there,” observed Constable Gale after they’d exchanged introductions.

“He isn’t usually like this. He’s- he misses his father, and the idea of not seeing him today didn’t go over well.” Belle felt a bit sheepish, herself. “I’m so sorry for your trouble.”

“No worries,” Constable Northrop said, waving away her apology. “He may need a talk about running off on his own, though, a lad so small.”

“I did remark on it. We’ll certainly be having a longer discussion on the topic,” Belle assured her.

After a brief farewell, the pair left, and Belle turned to quickly check in on Neal and Rummond. She needed to call home, to tell Mrs. Potts that Neal was there and safe. They’d surely missed him by now, and she could well imagine the searing that Lumiere’s ears would receive for taking his eyes off Neal. Looking in on them would only take a moment, though.

She’d barely gotten back onto the ward - having just long enough to see that Neal stood next to his father - when Nurse Halloran came in behind her.

“Nurse French? There’s an older lady in the foyer asking for you, and she looks quite flustered,” Ariel said, holding the door open.

Belle turned right back around and headed down the corridor again. There was really only one older lady that it could be.

“We’ve lost Neal,” Mrs. Potts said as soon as Belle rounded the corner. The cook’s eyes were red, and they were filling with tears again as she spoke. “Lumiere and Babette took him to the playground and- _Oh,_ I knew I shouldn’t have remarked that she could go along. They took their eyes off him, and when they came up for air, he was gone!”

“Mrs. Potts,” Belle said, taking her hands, which were busy twisting the starch out of a handkerchief. “Mrs. Potts, he’s all right. Neal found his way here. He’s in with his father now.”

Mrs. Potts sputtered indignantly, then gave a watery laugh. “Why, that little turkey!” she gasped, going over to drop into one of the waiting chairs. “You don’t know how I fretted. He’ll be all right?”

Belle sat down in the chair next to her. “He’s perfectly fine. He found a couple of policewomen near the playground, told them where he wanted to be, and they brought him right over.”

Mrs. Potts clucked her tongue. “That little turkey,” she repeated, more fondness than fluster, this time.

When Belle had come to him about Neal on Friday evening, Rummond felt as though something clenched around his heart at the very thought of not getting to see his son. He’d known it was necessary, though. She’d been right. Neal shouldn’t have to see him in such condition. But when his son stepped into his line of sight, the sense he’d thought it was flew out the window.

Neal climbed onto the bunk, coat and all, and he lay down facing his father. With a small arm draped carefully across the side of his father’s neck, he scooted in to cuddle as close as he could, nudging his forehead up against his Papa’s.

“It’s okay if you feel poorly, Papa,” he said, recalling the way Nurse Belle had described it to him early that morning. “Sometimes I feel like staying in the bed, too.”

Rummond felt something in him unfurl and relax with his son’s touch and words, and while it didn’t stop the rest from hurting, it made that small part more bearable. He moved enough to bump his forehead back against Neal’s in a gentle gesture - an attempt to say what he couldn’t in any other manner, just now - and a smile crossed his son’s face.

“I can be still and quiet,” Neal said. He yawned, and Rummond felt the puff of breath on his face. “I know how to be quiet.”

By the time Belle got Mrs. Potts on the way back home, she could hear the rumble of the trolley bringing lunch up from the kitchen. It would still be a few minutes. The other wards had theirs brought around first. She went back to her ward at last, and there she wasn’t surprised in the least to find Neal attached to his father like a limpet. His eyes were closed, and Rummond’s were, as well. Neal appeared to be asleep. Rummond, she wasn’t sure of, though his face seemed calmer than it had in days.

She took Neal’s cap and scarf, and though she let them be, she made frequent walks by. For hours, neither moved a muscle. At least once on her passes, she was certain that Rummond slept, his mouth having gone slightly slack in the way it did when he slept on his side. It was well worth it, then, the bit of uproar that Neal’s unexpected jaunt had caused.

Neal ate from his father’s dinner tray that night, though Rummond would have none of it, himself. Belle let the little boy stay as late as possible. He was the very last to leave, outlasting even the priest and nuns. It was nearly lights out before she had the heart to separate him from his father. With more reluctance from Neal even than he’d shown on previous visits, she finally parted them and put him into the waiting car.

When she went back inside, she noticed that Neal left the box of cookies. She was reasonably sure that Rummond wouldn’t eat them, but having been brought in by his son, they currently stood a better chance of it than anything brought in on a tray.

“I should have known it wouldn’t work well, trying to keep him from the hospital. He’s got too much of you in him,” she said, taking a seat at the edge of Rummond’s bed. “He loves you just as much as you love him.”

Rummond turned his head, looking up at her, and she thought she saw a wisp of a smile at the corner of his mouth. She lifted a hand to touch his cheek, the pad of her thumb stroking over the corner where his smile had drifted in and out so quickly.

Nurse Mills had clocked out, the rest of the patients were readying for bed, and the night shift was hers. Belle took her chance to lean down and press a kiss to his face. She felt his eyes close for the moment she stayed there.

“Rummond, I miss you…” she told him softly, brushing her nose against his cheek before making herself lean away again.


	63. A Soul Bitten

Graham and Dr. Hopper stood outside the ward when Belle came back up from the kitchen. She’d gone to ask whether Zelda might have the means to make some manner of clear broth to send along when dinnertime came around, since Rummond seemed to be handling a little tea here and there. The cook sent her back with assurances that she would come up with something. Finding Graham and the doctor there with such somber faces when she returned gave her a start. Doubly so, when they quieted and watched her progress down the corridor, as if they waited for her.

“Something’s the matter?” she asked as she approached them. She could feel the muscles across her shoulders go tight with apprehension.

“No, no,” Dr. Hopper quickly made clear. “Nothing new. Only conferring a bit.”

“He was asking about Captain Gold. I told him you’d know more," Graham said.

The doctor pushed his ever slipping glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “I haven’t seen the Captain since Friday before last. I thought I should check in with someone who sees more of him.”

Belle’s shoulders relaxed. Marginally. “He’s been in no condition to make the walk down.”

“I know - it’s all right.” Dr. Hopper gave her a gentle smile. “Graham has been keeping me as apprised as possible. Have you seen any changes?”

“Today has been better than yesterday. He’s sitting up more. Half an hour or so a few times today, though he still has to be cajoled into it. Between the tea I brought to him before breakfast and for lunch, I believe he’s had an entire cup.” The little tin box of cookies Neal left still sat untouched on his table. She had given in to attempting a bit of light blackmail, telling him how his son wanted him to have them. It had garnered no response.

Dr. Hopper nodded as she spoke, listening closely. “That’s wonderful. It means no further feeding sessions with Dr. Whale, if he continues improving.”

“One would hope.” Belle brought a peppermint out of her pocket and fiddled with the paper.

Graham reached over, bumping her elbow. “Tell him about this morning.”

“Oh - he shaved himself!” She smiled, her posture straightening with the cheer that Rummond had done so on his own. 

It had been necessary for Graham to shave him this past Friday, but she had asked Rummond whether he wanted to try it for himself, and he’d been agreeable. She’d fetched a small mirror and a basin of hot water, and though it had taken him perhaps three times as long as usual, he’d accomplished it.

“Is he speaking yet?” the doctor asked. “All that’s happened, I- I do wish I could get him down to my office.”

“Not yet. He’s more responsive, but no, no talking just yet.” Belle shook her head. “He visited the washroom this afternoon, after he had his second half-cup of tea.”

She had taken some liberty, sticking her nose in when she heard the sink taps turn on, to take his toiletry bag to him. With a quick excuse of ‘just in case,’ she placed it on the sink shelf and ducked out again. She’d hoped it was an encouraging gesture and not a harping one. Rummond had come back to his bed a bit pale, though cleaner, and she caught the scent of that dreadful American antiseptic wash on his breath, as well.

“He does sound as though he’s improving,” Dr. Hopper agreed.

Belle had been doing her best to coax him back out of the deep hole he’d been dropped into. She felt herself eager to latch onto any sign that he was inching into the light again. “I very much hope so.”

“I should let you get back to your work. One never knows who might round a corner.” He grinned, flicking a look between Belle and Graham, but there was more than solely humor behind his remark. “Thank you for the update, Nurse French.”

“Would you like to come in and see him for yourself?” she asked as she reached for the ward door.

Dr. Hopper looked for a moment as if he might go in with her, but in the end, he declined. “Perhaps tell him I asked after him? I fear my hovering might be taken for badgering over appointments, reluctant as he is for them at these times. I may stop by tomorrow, if things are still looking up.”

“You’re most welcome to.” Belle smiled, pushing the door a bit ajar. “I’ll tell him. And thank you for taking an interest.”

“Oh, well, he’s my patient,” the doctor said, appearing a little bewildered by her thanks.

“Still, thank you. A particular thank you, from me,” she said, and she left Graham and Dr. Hopper to themselves again.

The ward had grown a tad more chaotic between Belle leaving and returning, and she saw the culprits right away. Lieutenant Hargreaves’ morning had been a difficult one, and his solution today had been to distract himself by reading aloud - which would have been fine when he started off quietly. The louder the ward grew, however, the more _aloud_ Jefferson’s reading became. On the other side of the Lieutenant, another patient demanded in no uncertain terms that he read silently (though in language far less polite). In Ruby’s section of the ward, Jezek argued with her over whether the tincture of digitalis that Dr. Whale had prescribed for his heart was needed on this day, as he felt ‘right as rain.’

Belle looked to Rummond. He didn’t deal well with chaos on the ward on good days; she couldn’t imagine it was helpful right now. Sure enough, he was once more buried in his blankets, covers pulled over his head.

“Rummond,” she said, warning him that she was near before pulling the blankets back.

He flinched a little, and she found him with his hands clamped tightly over his ears. His eyes were open, though he didn’t seem to be _seeing_ anything, and his breathing had grown panicked.

 _“Rummond,”_ Belle addressed him again, her voice firmer this time. His eyes came to a focus, attention fixing on her. “It isn’t exactly the most serene day, is it?”

He moved his hands, and she went on speaking quietly to him. She went through their usual process of counting over inhales and exhales. It wasn’t immediate, but slowly, eventually, his breathing calmed, and with it his heart.

“Do you want to go to the storage room? Can you make it there?” she asked. Simply calming him here wouldn’t last long, frenetic as the room was intent on being this afternoon.

Rummond ran the tip of his tongue out to soothe his dry lips, and he nodded. 

Belle was glad of it. She needed to touch him and talk to him in ways she couldn’t with the witness of the entire ward. “I believe distraction is at its best for sneaking out unseen. Go on, and I’ll be along.” She touched his hand where it rested at the side of his neck, as if he waited to see whether he needed it over his ear again. “Be careful.”

She left him so that he could slip out, keeping an eye on him. He moved gradually, but he moved, leaning heavily on his cane. She wished she’d placed his things where he’d remembered to put them on, because without robe, without slippers, he made his way off the ward so slowly it was as though there were something pushing back against him. When the door closed behind him, Belle turned to see to Jefferson.

Ruby talked Leroy into taking his medication with a promise of having Dr. Whale re-evaluate it, and as that noise died down, Belle convinced Jefferson that he needn’t read so near the top of his lungs any longer. That, in turn, quieted his critic. The ward wavered at a tenuous peace again.

A nagging worry set in while she tried to busy herself waiting a few very long, very anxious minutes before following Rummond. Dr. Hopper’s observation about who might come around a corner came back to haunt her. Nurse Mills lurked somewhere around the hospital, and Rummond surely was in no shape to face her.

No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than she heard the door open. In the second between hearing and looking, her stomach dropped, and the relief she felt to see that it was only Graham made the exhaustion coming in the wake of her night shift weigh that much more heavily.

“Up and around twice in one day,” Graham said when he walked up next to her, his eyebrows raised in pleased surprise. “How did that happen?”

“The noise became too much for him. He could move, so he did.” Belle gave Graham a tired smile.

“I saw him leave the ward and made sure he got where he was going. No one else saw. Well, Nurse Lind, but-” He shrugged.

“Thank you. I worry _she’ll_ catch him,” she admitted, returning the book she’d momentarily confiscated from Jefferson. She asked once more of the Lieutenant, “Please, quietly?”

Jefferson gave her an overly sweet, “Yes, ma’am, nursie,” and took his book from her hand.

Belle stepped away, and Graham went with her. “Without his slippers…” he muttered a bit accusingly.

She gave him a patient look. “It didn’t occur to me at that moment he’d go without them.”

Graham shook his head, but he told her, “Go on, if you want. I’ll stay and watch your beds a while. Keep Little from killing Hargreaves, and such.”

She needed no more encouragement than that. Keeping her eyes and ears sharp, Belle headed toward the storage room and Rummond. She crossed paths with Nurse Boyd and an orderly she only vaguely knew from the west ward, and slowed so that each was gone before she got to the foyer.

Mal made a suggestive hum as she came around the end of the front desk.

“It’s nothing like that,” Belle said as she passed.

“Oh, I’m sure.” Mal grinned, utterly unconvinced. She turned a stack of folders on their ends and tapped them on the desk to line them up, pushing off to roll her chair across to the filing cabinet. “Don’t forget to lock the door,” she singsonged.

Belle rolled her eyes, but she locked the door behind her. She went around the shelves that cut through the middle of the room, softly speaking Rummond’s name to reassure him that he hadn’t an intruder.

He lay on his side, facing the wall. She saw him turn his head a little in acknowledgement of her presence, not quite looking over his shoulder at her. He’d managed to bring out the blanket and pillow, for the most part, though it looked as if he’d given up on spreading the blanket halfway through. She bent down to pull it straight, so that his legs and feet were on it instead of on the tile.

There was space for her to sit - he never did extend himself into the spot she usually took, not until she placed herself there - but she could _sit_ next to him on his bed on the ward. She wanted a little more than sitting nearby.

“May I lie down beside you?” Belle asked after a moment.

He did look at her, then. She waited until he nodded before she sat just at his back, shifting down a little until she was where she thought she should be. The need to put her arms around him had been constant for _days_. If he didn’t feel like sitting up, then she would simply work with that need this way.

Belle turned, lying down and curling to form her body to his. She felt him tense, the muscles over his ribs jumping when she wrapped her arm around him. It took a minute, but he began to relax again once she stilled.

“Should I- Do you want me to move?” she asked. If he didn’t want the contact, or if it was too much, she wouldn’t force him to accept it. She couldn’t help hoping that he didn’t ask her to move away, though. She’d been craving being this close for so long, she thought it might physically hurt to pry herself away.

Rummond drew a deep breath, and she felt the pressure of his chest expanding against her arm. He held it for a moment before allowing the air to rush out again.

“No,” he breathed, moving his hand so that his fingers curled over her wrist. “Please, don’t.”

Her heart skipped at the sound of three syllables, despite there being no voice behind them. She tightened her arm around him and rested her head next to his on the pillow. The blanket wasn’t much in the way of cushion under her, and if the tile bit into her through the padding of her hip and petticoats, she hated to imagine how it must be hurting his thinned frame.

“You called me ‘sweetheart,’” he said more clearly after a few moments. 

He hadn’t spoken a single, solitary word in a solid week, and in all her life, she didn’t think she’d heard many things lovelier than him speaking again. She laughed, her eyes stinging. “I did.”

Rummond felt as if he had to put an absurd amount of effort behind every word he said, but being able to get them out at all was a relief. It was the emotion they’d dammed that he was leery of provoking into the open. Belle’s arm around him and her warmth at his back busily unraveled his hold on it.

“Somehow, some p- part of me thought it would all resolve and be all right again, once I had Neal back. I thought- I thought I could _make_ it all right, repair everything, eventually. Dr. Hopper said, and you said, I was getting b- better.” He tucked his head a bit. Then had come his father, and every bit of the grip he’d _thought_ he had was taken away again. It had been that easy to take apart everything he’d managed to put together. “As it t- turns out, I’m not better at all.”

“But you are,” Belle tried to assure him. She rested her forehead against the back of his hair. “Just because there was a stumbling block set in front of you, it doesn’t mean you never had your footing in the first place. You’re fighting. That’s what is important.”

“It feels as if my entire life has been a fight, Belle. Fighting my father. Fighting the war. Fighting t- to _exist_. I’m so _tired_ of it,” he finished under his breath.

“I know,” she whispered back to him.

She didn’t, really, and she knew that she couldn’t know all the sorts of fighting he spoke of. Her own father had never harmed her as his had. She had certainly been neck deep in the war, in the field hospitals she'd been stationed at, but she'd never been forced to make the choice of picking up a weapon and deciding to end a life. She’d never been to the dark places his mind sent him, that he was struggling to heal. Truthfully, she didn’t want to experience _any_ of that fighting as intimately as he did, and it hurt to know that he was so buried beneath it all.

She wished for some medical intervention that could cure it - or that could _help_ , at the very least. It wasn’t so simple as that, though. That was what she knew. And all she could do was pick up a metaphorical shovel and stand beside him to help him dig his way out any way she could.

“I know, and I’m right here. Anything you need of me, I’m here.”

His voice had grown small when he asked her, “Tell me again?”

“Tell you what, sweetheart?”

Rummond’s silence carried on for a while before he said, “That he’s wrong?”

She slid her arm farther around him, holding herself more closely to him, and she felt his breath hitch. “You are _not_ worthless. I see you, and you are none of the things he claims. You are _good,_ and _brave,_ and you’re _strong,_ Rummond. He’s wrong. You are worth everything to me. I love you.”

It slipped out in her vehemence against his father’s cruelty, but it was truth, and she owned it as soon as she realized the words had come out of her.

Belle felt him shift, his body leaning back against her as he turned. She raised up onto her elbow, pulling her arm from around him as he moved first onto his back, then onto his side to face her. She smiled. He looked as if she’d stuck him with a needle.

“I love you,” she told him with more gentleness this time, gazing down into his eyes while she waited for it to dawn on him.

For a moment, Rummond could have sworn that his heart stopped. _The way she looked at him, what she’d said._ Then it gave a great _thump_ that bloomed in an ache across his ribcage.

“And I love you.”

It wasn’t a revelation. He knew how strongly he felt for her. He’d known it for a good, long time. But he had never allowed himself to so much as daydream of hearing the same sentiment from her.

Belle leaned in quite suddenly, her hand sliding along his shoulder to curl at the back of his neck, and she kissed him. She opened her mouth, catching his bottom lip between hers and tracing the tip of her tongue over it. His head spun. An errant hope that the sugar in the tea she’d given him was enough to keep him from passing out crossed his mind. But if he were to faint as result of _anyone’s_ kiss, he would prefer it be hers.

He parted his lips for her, and she gave a shallow lick in just behind his front teeth. She’d done it before, a time or three; it never failed to make his heart pound harder, the fact that she wanted inside and the way she asked him for it. He rested his hand at her back, splayed and pressing her to him. Her kiss wasn’t demanding or scrabbling. It was slow. Explorative. It was solace in tangible form.

He allowed himself to need and want her, his hand closing to hold onto her apron where the straps met. She made a small, pleased sound into his mouth, and the vibration of it went through him from fingertips to toes.

Belle tugged carefully at his lower lip as she pulled back, lying down with her head next to his again. She combed her fingers through the fine hair at his nape.

Bringing his hand up, Rummond stroked along the hair over Belle’s temple. He’d never touched her hair before, and he found it soft against his fingertips. He felt a sudden desire to see it without cap or pins holding it back.

“‘Sweetheart,’” he repeated the endearment, wrapping his mouth around it. He preferred hearing it from hers.

“Do you not want me to call you so?” she asked.

“No, please do,” he said, voice soft and half drunk on her.

Belle’s fingers slipped from his hair. She moved her hand to cradle her palm along the hunger-sharp line of his jaw, stroking her thumb against his cheek. His eyes closed, a crease drawing in his brow.

He leaned into the contact. His face turned toward her hand, so that his mouth rested at the base of her palm, and he stayed there as though it was all he wanted, to be there basking in her touch and warmth. He felt her move her face near his again, and she plucked another soft, brief kiss from his lips.

She leaned back once more to watch Rummond’s face. The creases that deepened with worry and despair smoothed nearly as much as they did when she caught him sleeping. Belle reveled in at last being able to give him as much attention and affection as she wanted, even if only for a little while. 

They could steal time like this. She would find ways. If Ruby could, then so could she.

It struck Rummond all at once, unbidden and unwanted, that Dr. Hopper was right. This wasn’t a _cure_ for what had gone wrong in his head. As desperately as he wanted this between them, as much as he loved her - and oh, God, he _did_ \- it wouldn’t by some miracle repair everything any more than Neal being returned to him had. He worked to wrap his mind around that.

Another thought intruded right on its heels. _You don’t deserve any of this. Not Belle. Not Neal. None of it._

She was smiling at him, her eyes searching his face as if she wanted to figure out what he was thinking. Rummond tried to give her a smile in return, but it rose and fell, his mouth trembling with it.

“It’s all right,” she whispered. She ran the tips of her index and middle fingers across his lower lip. “You don’t have to smile. Not if you don’t feel it.”

He tilted his head until his nose touched her cheek, echoing the affectionate gesture she’d given him on the previous night. When he stayed there, she went back to carding her fingers through the ends of his hair, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever known anything so comforting. There wasn’t much peace to be had, but it seemed Belle’s arms provided what there existed of it.


	64. Little Eyes, Little Ears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts - _lisbeth_snape prompted: "Neal, after waking up in the middle of the night because of a nightmare, goes to Belle's room looking for comfort and ends up sleeping on her bed."_
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> _Anonymous said: “Neal has a nightmare. Possibly wetting the bed and afraid he'll be punished or maybe wanting to sleep in Belle's bed but being afraid to ask. And when he mentions it to Rummond he gets all the feels. I cannot deal with how beautiful this story is.”_

Neal was still at school when Christopher’s mother dropped him off at the French estate to stay with his grandmother. She stayed for not half an hour, herself, declaring that she was going on a seaside holiday - with a Dutchman whom Mrs. Potts would later generously label ‘the gentleman friend’ - immediately after which she intended to relocate back to the Netherlands with him. She promised to send for Chip once she was settled, and promptly disappeared again. It was something they’d been through more than a few times in a number of variations, and it never lasted for long. There was usually just enough time for Chip to feel at home in the house again before his mother came around to spirit him off for a month or so, only to return him filled to the brim with promises.

Mrs. Potts knew her daughter’s promises, and she put no stock in them at all. Her grandson, however, had yet to lose such innocence.

Introducing the two boys went as well as she could have expected. Chip had been curious, if a bit doubtful over the surprise of a smaller child in the house. Neal’s first instinct was to place himself on the other side of Mrs. Potts, peering at Christopher from around her hip.

Neal had heard much about the other boy, owing to the staff’s habit of talking around him as though he were too young to catch on. Chip was the ripe old age of ten, bigger, taller, and far blonder than he, and tended toward mischief when he was idle. He’d wondered now and then about when Chip might return. Now that he had, Neal wasn’t sure how to react. It was different, somehow, from the children at school.

Mrs. Potts sat them down at the counter and gave them a chicken sandwich and a half slice of sponge cake apiece to do them until dinner. When they’d finished, quiet as mice, she had them put their coats back on and sent them into the garden in hopes that they might become friendly.

They stood on opposite sides of the lawn. Chip squatted down near one of the flower beds, poking around among the dying stems that hadn’t yet been cleared away. Neal pulled himself up on his tiptoes with a low plum tree branch, looking into the hollow where he’d often found lizards when it was warmer. Nurse Belle’s Papa had told him that they were hibernating, but he always checked when he went out. After finding the little space empty, he looked over to see what Chip was doing. The other boy had a hand in the soil, seeming to search for something. Neal went over to look.

“Your mama leaves you, too?” Chip asked.

A frown carved into Neal’s small features. “She brought me to my Papa.”

“She’ll come back. Mine always does.” Something rattled in Chip’s hand. Pebbles, placed beneath the soil for drainage, and he’d dug a few out. “If you’re living here, where’s your papa?”

“He’s in Nurse Belle’s hospital. He’s hurt.” Neal edged closer as Chip stood up.

The older boy hurled a pebble at the side of the house, narrowly missing the window and ricocheting off its stone apron. Neal ran forward, pulling Chip’s arm down as he raised it again. “Don’t!”

“Why not?” Chip asked, blinking at him.

Neal shook his head. “It’s Nurse Belle’s house. Be nice.”

Chip looked at the pebble in his hand before dropping it along with the rest. He looked sad, Neal thought.

The door opened, and Mrs. Potts stepped out onto the flagged patio. “It’s getting too cold to be outdoors, after all. Come in and wash up, and I’ll see what might be done about a bit of cocoa.”

The rest of the day went much as usual. Chip didn’t want to play, but Neal remembered not feeling like playing right after his Mum left, either. He met Nurse Belle at the kitchen door when she arrived, and he tagged along when she went to the room kept for Chip off Mrs. Potts’ room, to say hello.

Chip kept to himself. He ate dinner in the kitchen with Mrs. Potts, and he didn’t go into the sitting room with them afterward, despite Nurse Belle’s and her Papa’s encouragement.

“Christopher is never very personable the first week or so after he comes back,” she explained to Neal as she tucked him in. “He’ll be grumpy for a while. It’s probably best to leave him be until he feels like making friends.”

Neal supposed that made sense. He curled up, hugging Philippe to him with one arm, and moved the other hand to rest on the pillow. Nurse Belle petted his hair, wished him a good night, and turned his light off when she left his room. He stuck his thumb in his mouth, thinking. Tomorrow, he would offer Chip the use of his crayons. Drawing helped some when he felt badly. Perhaps they would help Chip, too.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

Neal woke with a yelp and a sudden need to not be alone. He’d had bad dreams before, but this one had outdone itself.

For a few minutes, he stayed where he was. Nurse Belle had told him that he could go to her room if he ever needed anything after bedtime. So far, he had taken care of himself. He was good at that. If he needed water, he could get a sip from the washroom sink by himself. He could sort of rock himself back to sleep, if he needed that. Only once had he started toward her room, and her Papa had found him and taken him downstairs for warm milk before he could get there.

He wanted Nurse Belle, though, and the scared-lonely feeling wasn’t going away. So, he pushed his covers back and slid down from the bed. He was halfway to the door when he felt his pajamas clinging to him, cold and wet, and _oh, no._

Neal hurried to the wall and stretched up for the light switch, but it was _just_ too high for him to reach. He could smell himself now, though, and he knew for certain. He looked back at the bed. He needed help. Mrs. Potts being upset at him wouldn’t feel as terrible as Nurse Belle being upset at him, but Mrs. Potts’ bedroom was all the way down by the kitchen, and he wasn’t sure he could get downstairs in this much dark by himself.

He felt for the door handle and slipped out into the hallway, hoping that Nurse Belle had come upstairs by now. Sometimes she went back downstairs after she tucked him in. She’d spent an awful lot of time the last couple of weeks in the sitting room, working at a table that the maids brought down from the attic. He’d watched them put it together, and he remembered thinking something was wrong with it because it didn’t have a top. It had been covered with a blanket since then. She would sit there sewing on it, but he didn’t see how that would work as a table, either.

Neal patted his way along the piece of wall between his door and hers, hoping one more time that she wasn’t still in the sitting room, because again, so much dark between here and there. He tapped on her door and waited. She didn’t say anything and didn’t open it. He tapped again, and when there was still no answer, he had second thoughts. Perhaps she _was_ downstairs. If she’d already gone to bed, not answering meant she was asleep, and that meant he would have to wake her. He pulled at the front of his top. He could clean himself up, he thought, but he couldn’t clean the bed. He didn’t know how.

He turned the door handle until it clicked, and the door swung itself open a little. Neal could see the shadow of her bed directly across the room. It was with relief that he saw she was in it.

“Nurse Belle,” he whispered, stepping just inside. No response. He went over to her bed, asking again, “Nurse Belle?”

He tugged at her blanket. “Nurse Belle, waken up?”

Neal took a step back. He could clean up and sleep on the floor. Mrs. Potts would help him when she came to get him ready for school in the morning. 

Nurse Belle raised her head. He couldn’t see her face, but she looked directly at him. He shrank back a little more.

“Neal?” Belle sat up, her long sleep braid flopping over her shoulder.

“I did something bad,” he whispered.

She reached for her lamp, turning it on. Neal’s chin was tucked close to his chest, his shoulders pulled in. She blinked quickly, trying to clear her vision, and took her lapel watch from the bedside table to bring it closer to her eyes. She’d been in bed scarcely two hours.

“Neal, what’s the matter?”

“I did something bad,” he said again, chewing nervously at the inside of his bottom lip.

Belle rubbed her face, trying to better wake herself. “I don’t understand.”

He turned around and started out of her bedroom. She threw her covers back and followed, switching on the pendant light overhead as she went into his room. She found him at his bedside, looking down at the sheets.

“Oh…” she said, seeing the wet stain in the middle of the bed. She looked to him, at the wet front of his pajamas. “Oh, Neal, darling.”

“I didn’t mean to.” He wouldn’t look at her, but he sounded on the verge of crying.

“I know you didn’t. Come on.” Belle rested a hand at his back, beginning to take him along to the washroom, but he dug his heels in.

“I’m sorry!” Neal whimpered, twisting to get away. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”

“No, it’s all right,” Belle told him, frowning in surprise at his reaction. He looked so terrified that she let him pull back from her.

She saw him chewing at the inside of his lip again. “Has this happened before?” she asked. “Before you came here?”

He nodded, reluctantly at first. Belle didn’t ask for specifics - partially because she worried that it would upset him further, but also partially because she wasn’t sure she wanted to know what made him react in such a way.

She bent down, offering her hand in an attempt to draw him back to her. “It’s all right. It was an accident. I know that you didn’t mean to.”

Neal took a step toward her again. When he was within reach, she wiggled her fingers, and he took her hand.

Belle dropped a kiss on the top of his head, recalling what he’d said when he woke her. “You didn’t do anything bad. It’s all right. Really, it is,” she assured him. “We’re just going to go and clean you up.”

“What about the bed?” he asked, casting a look back over his shoulder as she led him in toward the bath.

“I’ll get to the bed. It’s more important we get you clean right now.”

He sighed, looking down at himself. “I’m dirty.”

“You’re only wet, darling.” Belle sat down on the rim of the bathtub. “And not for long.”

“Not too hot,” he said when she turned the tap on.

“No, not too hot. It’s only bath water.” She got the temperature adjusted and pulled him closer by his sleeve. “Come here, let’s get you out of those.”

He wrinkled his face up, watching while she unbuttoned his top. “Do we have to wash my hair again?”

Belle smiled over his distaste for Mrs. Potts’ head-scrubbing. “I think your hair is fine.”

She got him undressed and put his clothing into the hamper, then got Neal into the tub. He stood in the deepening water, looking miserable all the while. His face was red, and she couldn’t be sure whether it was embarrassment or his earlier panic. She dampened a washcloth with cool water at the sink and knelt down next to the bathtub to gently wipe his face with it, to help calm him.

She pushed her nightgown sleeves up to keep them from getting soaked, and she gave Neal a quick wash from the neck down. By the time she was done, his eyelids were beginning to droop a bit. Standing, she went to fetch a towel from the linen cupboard.

“Nurse Belle?”

“You know, you needn’t call me ‘nurse.’” She beckoned for him to get out of the bath, catching hold of his arm to steady him in the soapy water. “I would hope we’ve moved beyond such formalities by now, you and I,” she teased as she bundled him up in the big white towel.

Neal shivered and gave her a confused look.

“You aren’t my patient,” Belle said, making it easier for him to understand.

“Then what am I?” he asked while she herded him ahead of her back into his bedroom.

She placed him next to the heating vent while she gathered clean clothes for him. “Well, you’re my friend, aren’t you?” she said, and she turned back to see him smiling.

“You’re my friend,” Neal echoed happily, burrowing his face into the towel where it overlapped under his chin. After a moment, he tried out a muffled, “Belle?”

“Hm?” She sat down on the edge of the cushioned rocking chair that had once belonged to her mother, unbuttoning the blue and white plaid pajamas she’d pulled from the dresser.

“We’re going Sunday to see my Papa, aren’t we?” he asked tentatively, as if he were afraid of the answer.

She held out a small pair of underthings, and he dropped his towel at her feet to put them on. “We most certainly are,” she confirmed. She learned from her mistakes. Or she’d learned from that one, at least.

He leaned on her as she helped him into his pajama bottoms, and slowly did up the top buttons on his own while she stripped the bed and took the bedclothes to the hamper. The stain on the mattress seemed bigger even than the one on the sheets.

Belle caught him staring down at the bed, all traces of his lightened mood gone. “I need to fetch a lamp and go downstairs. Coming along?”

He nodded, trailing along after her. She stepped into her room to light the small oil lamp from the cabinet of her bedside table, so that she didn’t have to switch on light after light on her way.

They went down to the kitchen, and Belle opened up the maid’s cupboard at the back of the pantry to take out the great glass vinegar jug kept for cleaning, pouring a bit up in a jar. She took the box of cornstarch down from the dry goods cupboard, shaking a good amount into a bowl, and stirred it together with just enough water to make a paste of it.

Cleaning urine from mattresses without leaving an odor behind was one of the practicalities she’d learned very early on in her nursing scutwork. She had discovered quickly that trauma did odd things to the bodies of even the most battle-hardened soldiers.

Neal followed her every step, holding onto a handful of her nightgown the entire way down and the entire way back. Balancing the bowl atop the mouth of the jar, she went carefully back upstairs. Once she set lamp and supplies all on the table next to Neal’s bed, she lifted him to sit in the rocker while she finished up.

With the towel she’d dried him on, she soaked up as much as she could from the mattress, then poured vinegar over the stain and used the towel on it again. After making a solid layer of the cornstarch paste over the spot, she took the bowl and jar into the washroom and gave her hands a good soaping.

“The maids will set it out in the sun tomorrow,” she said, pulling her sleeves down again. “And they’ll turn it and put it back, once it’s dry.”

“Is Fleep okay?” Neal asked timidly. “Did he get wet?”

Belle took the teddy bear from atop the pillows she’d stacked next to the bed, handing it to Neal. “He’s just fine,” she told him, running a hand over the back of his hair. “I believe it’s time to go back to sleep, hm?”

Neal wrapped his arms around the bear, pressing his mouth against the head. He wanted to ask to go back to her room with her. Besides his bed being wet, he still didn’t want to be alone. What if he had an accident in _her_ bed, though? And even if he didn’t, she wouldn’t want him there, would she? He wondered if she might put him in one of the other guest rooms for the rest of the night, or perhaps he would have to sleep in the bed with Chip.

“Come on,” she said, holding her hand out for him. “You’ve school and I have work in a few hours. You can stay with me for the night.”

Neal looked at her hand for a few seconds before placing his in it again. With a tug, he slid down from the chair to go with her.

She picked up her lamp, switched off the light in his room, and took him along to hers. Belle only let go of his hand when they were safely inside. She got into bed and sat in the middle, cross-legged.

“Neal, darling… What happened?” she asked gently. “Did you just wake up and find yourself wet, or did you have a bad dream? Can you tell me?”

“I had a bad dream,” he admitted, chin tucked so close that he practically mumbled down his pajama top.

“Can you tell me what it was about?”

He placed the teddy bear on her blanket and began working to climb up, himself. Belle leaned over her folded legs to help him into her taller bed. She gathered him onto her lap and he snugged in close, pulling his legs up into the soft hammock that her nightgown made where it stretched across her knees.

“You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to,” she told him, leaning her cheek against the top of his head. “We can just sit here until you’re sleepy, if that’s what you want.”

“My Mum, and Mum’s friend, and Papa,” he murmured under his breath, stroking the felt inside the teddy bear’s ears.

“Your Papa?” Belle asked. “Whatever sort of bad dream did you have of them?”

Neal shrugged as best he could. “Mum and her friend came to get me. Papa told them they could have me.”

Her brow creased, and she gave him a reassuring little squeeze. “That would never happen,” she said. Given the givens, having that manner of nightmare was entirely unsurprising, though. “Your Papa wouldn’t allow it, and- and neither would I. Your Papa has you, now, and I have a house filled with people who won’t let anyone take you away.”

Even if that woman or her ‘friend’ _did_ happen to turn up again, the law was on Rummond’s side, and therefore on hers as Neal’s custodian. In all honesty with herself, she wasn’t sure what lengths she might go to, to keep the boy from falling back into his mother’s hands. Not with all she’d learned of his time there.

He pressed his face to the bear’s head again. “Papa doesn’t want me anymore,” he said, smothering the words in the toy’s fur.

Saying it hurt, and hearing it out loud scared him. He didn’t want to cry, and he bit his cheeks to keep from it, but he felt tears squeeze out, anyway. His breath started to hiccup, and he turned to hide his face in the front of Belle’s nightgown.

“What? _No.”_ Belle closed her arms more tightly around him. “Neal, nothing could be farther from the truth. Your Papa loves you _so much_ …”

“He won’t hug me or talk to me or look at my drawings. I don’t want to go back to Mum. _Please, I don’t want to go back?”_ Neal let go of the bear, wrapping his arms around Belle’s middle.

“You won’t have to go back. You won’t ever have to go back.” She fought her own throat trying to tighten in sympathy.

Belle held onto him, comforting him and letting him cry himself into exhaustion. Her heart hurt for him, but she knew well that sometimes there was nothing more to do than let tears go until they ran dry.

He needed his father to tell him the things she had. While she didn’t look forward to telling Rummond about the night his son had, he needed to know. 

When Neal was at last quiet, gone limp and his breathing finally evened out, Belle shifted him over to lay him down. Pliable as he was, he felt like little more than a rag doll. She stretched out beside him and pulled the covers up around them, leaning over to turn off her table lamp. She wasn’t certain whether Neal moved in his sleep or consciously sought out comfort when he turned to face her, tucking himself as closely to her as he could.


	65. What Peace There May Be

Belle understood the next morning why Neal’s bed was a wreck on those days that she got to go in and wake him, herself. She woke with him lying sideways in her bed, one of his legs flopped over her stomach, her old teddy bear having somehow found its way beneath the small of her back, and every pillow save the one that her head occupied fallen to the floor. He was not a child who slept still. He seemed to have rested fine, once he’d tired himself into it, but she didn’t feel as though she’d gotten quite as much as usual of her own.

She climbed slowly from her bed, drawing the blanket up to drape over his face, so that the table light wouldn’t wake him. He never stirred as she dressed. It wasn’t until she’d sat at her vanity, opening pins with her teeth to put up her hair, that she noticed motion behind her in the mirror’s reflection.

Neal sat up, pulling the covers away and giving his hair a good dose of static. She smiled to herself at the owlish blink he gave her, and the little boy watched quietly while she finished anchoring her cap.

“Good morning,” she said as she turned on the vanity stool to get her shoes. “Did you and Philippe sleep well?”

Neal looked around, fishing through the bedclothes for the bear, and gathered it to his chest. He rubbed a curled finger in the corner of his eye. “I didn’t have any more bad dreams.”

“Good. That’s good.” She finished off tying the lacing of her shoe and went over, picking the pillows up from the floor before she sat next to him. “Downstairs, or back to bed?” Belle asked, brushing hair away from his eyes. 

He seemed to think it over for a moment before deciding, “Bed.”

“All right. How about one more tuck-in, hm?”

Neal slid down to rest on his side again. “Tell Papa I’ll see him Sunday?”

“I’ll be sure to. He looks forward to seeing you, as well, you know,” she reassured. She brought the blanket around his shoulder.

His eyes drifted closed, and before she could move to leave, they opened again. “I made some drawings,” he told her, words already slurred together.

“On your desk?” she asked to be certain which he meant, and he nodded sleepily. She couldn’t help reaching out to touch his cheek. “I’ll make sure that he gets them..”

She turned the lamp off and went a door down to fetch the drawings Neal had done for his father before she headed down to the kitchen, where Mrs. Potts fussed with a pot of porridge to make it more palatable to the pair of children it would be feeding.

“Neal had a bit of an accident last night,” Belle said, crossing to the coat rack in the far corner, where her everyday coat and scarf lived. “He had a nightmare and wet his bed.”

The cook paused in her stirring to turn. “Oh, poor dear.”

“He slept in with me.” Belle pulled her coat on and worked on its buttons as they talked. “Would you mind getting his things and dressing him in my room?”

Mrs. Potts nodded, taking a handful of her apron to wipe her hands. “So he needn’t be reminded of it. Of course.”

“I cleaned up and put the sheets in the hamper, but the mattress needs to be aired.”

“Babette and Josephine will take it out while the sun’s high. I believe there’s another in the attic, if it isn’t dry by bedtime.”

“Thank you. He may be a little… fragile,” Belle explained. “A bad night all the way around. If he mentions his father-”

“I’ll be careful what I say. I _could_ keep him home from school today.” Mrs. Potts looked as if the suggestion was far from a hardship.

Belle grinned, but she shook her head. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Perhaps a treat when he’s back, though?”

“That child will grow out of his clothes before the summer, at this rate.”

“And it won’t hurt him a bit.” Belle nodded to the stove. “I always liked when you hid a dollop of jam in the middle.”

Mrs. Potts took a jar of blackcurrant jam from the counter next to her, holding it up and giving it a shake. “My memory isn’t as bad as you think!” she called before Belle got out the door.

On the bicycle ride between home and the hospital, Belle practiced how she would tell Rummond about Neal’s night. She did her best to predict the ways in which he might react, and to create responses to them. There were bits that she couldn’t - or _wouldn’t_ \- tell him word for word. Rummond was still shaky, himself. She and Mrs. Potts could deal with some of the more difficult aspects of Neal’s upset, for now.

Once she’d clocked in, she went ahead to prepare a cup of tea for Rummond. He was working his way back to anything more than tea and broth, and she still felt as if even that much was a victory. 

He was sitting up in his bed when she went in, fiddling with the cards that were becoming more frayed at the edge by the day. Belle decided that she’d pick up a new deck for him when she went to the shops again. He shuffled the cards over and over, his concentration for anything at all that might busy him still at scratch. He’d done the same off and on throughout the previous day. It was easy to see how desperate he was to occupy his hands.

“Good morning,” she said softly enough to make it a private greeting.

Rummond set his cards aside in exchange for the tea she offered. “Good morning,” he returned, holding his hands over hers around the cup for a moment before he took it. 

She sat near him, leaving a space next to her. “Sit up on the side with me for a while?”

He hummed in a little reluctance, and she smiled. He did what she requested, though, setting his cup down long enough to shift to the edge of the bunk.

Belle smelled toothpaste and soap on him - he’d been up long enough to look after his morning ritual. She was glad to see that he was feeling at least well enough for that much. 

“How was your night?” she asked, reaching across for the tin box of thimble cookies that still sat on his table. The strings of icing across their tops had become a bit sticky, but they were still good. She offered him one, and he only gave it a glance before taking his teacup in both hands again.

“More of the usual.” The usual insomnia. Though, if it hadn’t kept him awake, the phantom smell of gunpowder and castor oil would have done the job just fine. He blew a stream of air over the surface of his tea and had a sip. “Nothing terrible. Nothing very good, either.”

“Sleep will come back,” she comforted. It had deserted and returned to him before. It would again. As long as he didn’t go dangerously long without, sleeplessness wasn’t her topmost worry for him these last couple of weeks.

She nibbled at the cookie she’d offered, leaving the box open on her lap. “Mm, your correspondence for the day,” she said, remembering.

Rummond set his cup aside again as she took a carefully-rolled bunch of drawings from her apron pocket, holding them out for him. He took them, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he looked. For the most part, there were more versions of what Neal had drawn and sent along before. Belle, Mrs. Potts, his room and the garden, his school and classroom. There was something new at the end - a little boy with yellow hair. He held it out to Belle in question.

“That would be Mrs. Potts’ grandson,” she explained. “He stays with her a good bit. His mother brought him by yesterday.”

“She does that often, I take it?”

Belle nodded. “He’s spent more time with us than with her. I think he and Neal will like one another, once he’s settled back in.”

Hoping that the little works of art had lifted his spirits enough to accept, she offered another cookie. He took it, and she had to consciously keep herself from wiggling and staring as he slowly ate. It was the first solid food he’d had in a week and a half.

“Neal had a hand in making those,” she said once he’d finished the cookie. “I have it on good authority that he made the wells and added the jam.”

“I thought they tasted a bit like small hands were involved.” That bit of a smile appeared again, and she could have kissed it, did they not have so many witnesses.

Rummond laid the papers on his table with all the rest, replacing the heavy butter knife purloined from a breakfast tray that held secure the growing stack of them. Belle waited until he seemed to be doing nothing more with his cup than warming his hands around it, and she decided that it was time to tell him of his son’s night.

“Neal had a difficult night, last night,” she began, and his attention was immediately on her.

What smile had been there on his face fell away, and his brow drew. “What happened?”

“He had a nightmare,” Belle explained, lowering her voice. “He woke to having wet the bed, and came to find me.”

Rummond took a breath to speak, his frown deepening, and she went on before he could interrupt quite yet.

“Everything was all right - I cleaned him up and let him stay the night with me. No harm done at all,” she assured.

“He slept in your bed? He was all right there?” Rummond asked. 

Milah, even before the war and everything he’d done to drive her away, back in the days when she’d been kind, had never allowed Neal to sleep in the same room with them. She’d said he would keep her awake. Rummond remembered months of half-sleep, trying to stay aware to hear just in case the baby cried. And Belle had taken Neal right in when he needed her. Rummond hadn’t expected it.

“Oh, he was just fine. He’s a bit of a tumbling sleeper, but we did well,” Belle told him, smiling. “I left him there to sleep until he has to dress for school.”

Rummond nodded in response, still a bit stunned with her. 

“I mightn’t have even told you, if-” She replaced the lid on the cookies, setting the box on the other side of her. “Well, it wasn’t the wet bed itself that worried me. He’s a little thing, still growing - it happens. It was putting that together with the nightmare and what he said after.”

“Tell me,” he asked, weaving his hands tightly together in his lap.

There was no way Belle could tell him that he’d had any part in Neal’s bad dream. It would have broken his heart. She would get his son’s need across to him in another way. His presence wasn’t the point of the dream, anyway.

“He didn’t detail it for me, but the gist he gave is that his mother and that boyfriend of hers came back to take him away again. He was terrified, poor darling.” She couldn’t blame him, with even the small amount she knew of them.

The thought of it made Rummond’s stomach sink all at once. “They won’t. I won’t allow it.”

“And I told him just that. The bad dream, though, and knowing how his mother left him, he’s feeling very insecure. He’s afraid that you might send him back to his mother, afraid you might decide that you don’t want him anymore, as she did. I think he may need a bit of reassurance that he’s wanted.”

“I need to tell him. I should tell him more often,” Rummond agreed. He knew how easy it was for a child to feel unwanted, and it wasn’t something he had ever wanted his son to experience. “I’m so sorry, Belle. I should have been able to be up and about on Sunday, I should have-”

Belle reached out for his hands, curling her fingers in between them where they pressed together. She could feel the lines of his palm against her fingertips.

“No, Rummond… He had a bad night. It wasn’t your fault, and it wasn’t his. Just as it isn’t your fault when _you_ have a bad time,” she said. “I imagine he’ll have more, after everything. It’s to be expected, though.”

He frowned, looking down at their hands. He watched as her thumb stroked between the knuckles of his middle and ring fingers. “He shouldn’t be having them at all. He’s too young to have to hurt in such a way.”

“Well, in an ideal world, good people wouldn’t be harmed at all. In this one, all we can do is help those who have been.”

“And those people who aren’t good?” he murmured.

“You _are_ a good person, Rummond,” she told him, and she leaned to try and catch his eye. He refused to let her. She slid her hand closer to his wrist and gave his hand a squeeze, instead.

Rummond’s stomach turned, and the tea he’d gotten down so easily this morning threatened to come back up.

 _Neal will grow up to hate you, same as you hate your father, and he’ll have reasons every bit as good for it._

His own thoughts took up where the nasty little intrusion on them left off. Belle would grow sick of him sooner than later, as well. The way he had more downs than ups, the way he clung and needed and cried like a child. 

He couldn’t provide for her. He couldn’t provide for Neal. Even if he, by some miracle, healed completely and was released from the hospital tomorrow, what would he do? His accounts were still frozen. He had his tenement flat paid for through a year from his admittal date, and he could sell the house he’d bought when he and Milah married, but how long would that money last? No one would hire him. He was nothing. And he had nothing to offer anyone. There was no point to him.

His entire goal had been to become well enough that his son would be safe with him - he wanted that more than anything. But he’d begun to doubt that it would ever be possible. He was doing nothing more than taking up a bunk, consuming supplies meant for men who _deserved_ to be provided care. 

Neal seemed _so happy_ with Belle. If he were to stay with her in a more permanent way, he would be all right. More than. His son would be cared for and loved. Neal would be raised in a way guaranteed to give him a good life. Did _he_ have any hope of giving that much to his son?

Rummond _wanted_ to be there, to have his son, to be with Belle. But at the same time… He was so tired of hurting in so many ways. His behavior was already causing Neal harm, and it was only a matter of time before it began hurting Belle. If he took himself out of the equation, she could find herself a proper man. Someone who didn’t require nursemaiding. His son would no longer be burdened with him. Neal could perhaps even grow up free of the label of coward’s son.

“I was thinking,” Belle said, and her voice brought him out of his head. “Dr. Hopper might be willing to talk with Neal about what’s troubling him. His mother, and the worries that situation has given him. Would you be in favor of it?”

Rummond nodded. He tightened his hands around Belle’s, holding onto her. “If it’ll help him. Anything to help him.”

“Then I’ll have a talk with Dr. Hopper about it.” Belle knew that she needed to be starting her first rounds, but she was unwilling to take her hand from Rummond just yet. He had an odd look about him. The ward was reasonably calm; it wouldn’t hurt to sit with him for a bit longer. 

“How is it, having Neal with you?” he asked, looking up at her. “You still enjoy having him there?”

“I do! He’s no trouble at all, I promise you. He’s the sweetest boy, Rummond.” She smiled, shaking her head. “I’ll be at such loose ends when it’s time for you to take him home with you. I’ve gone and gotten attached.”

It was good that she was attached, Rummond thought. And Neal was attached to her, as well, judging by the way he responded to her when she brought him to visit. Neal would be safe and loved, then, no matter what.


	66. A Strength to Harm

He wanted to see his son again. He wouldn’t do anything without seeing Neal. After he’d seen Neal and gotten his arms around him again, after he had a talk with his son to tell the boy just how very loved and wanted he was… then he would make a decision how to go about it. The hospital wouldn’t make it easy, but he knew all too well that it could be done.

The thoughts struck him as familiar. There had been a time when he despaired of ever being allowed to see Neal again, when he’d been alone with his memories and the hallucinations that came with them. He’d thought of making everything stop then - making everything quiet and still, making the hurt _go away._

There was the familiarity. It was happening again, and it frightened him as much now as it had then. That wasn’t what he _wanted._

Rummond pushed himself up to sit, looking for Belle. She wasn’t on the ward. The first twists of panic were setting in when she returned, carrying a set of bedsheets.

Belle gave Commander Strand his pillow case to switch out while Nurse Halloran helped her with the rest of the bed. The Commander had somehow overturned the plate from his tray at breakfast, and while his quick thinking had saved them from having to clean the mattress, the rest required changing.

Accustomed as she’d become to keeping a close eye on Rummond, she looked to him after making the corners of the bottom sheet, while she waited for Ariel to snap the other over top. She found him watching her with a strange expression on his face, and she sent him a smile. With a later glance, she realized that he didn’t simply watch - he was trying to catch her eye. Belle nodded to tell him that she understood, and she finished tucking the blanket around the mattress before going over.

“Rummond?” The hunted look in his eyes remained, and she moved slowly to lay a hand on his shoulder. “Something’s wrong.”

He looked up at her, opening his mouth, and there was the space of a few seconds before he spoke. He seemed to force the words out. “Do you think Dr. Hopper might still have my appointment?”

He’d had an odd manner the last couple of days, though he’d neither behaved differently toward her nor did he seem to grow worse again. Now there was this new fright in his expression that worried her. She lifted her hand from his shoulder to touch his face, and felt marginally reassured when he began to respond in his usual way. He leaned his cheek into her touch, but his eyes didn’t close. Instead, they remained locked on hers.

“I’m sure he must. I’ll go and ask, though. Right away?”

Rummond’s voice was a bit broken when he asked, “Please?”

She gave his neck a gentle pat where her fingertips rested. “I’ll be quick.”

Rummond _asking_ to see Dr. Hopper was far out of the ordinary. There was some reason behind it. That part of his treatment wasn’t privy to her, for the most part, but she badly wanted to know what was going on in his head. There seemed to be a limited number of reasons for which one would need to see a psychologist with such immediacy, and there was only one that she knew he’d experienced before.

Her heart lurched. Once she was through the door, she hurried in the direction of the west ward.

Rummond had sipped the better part of the perpetual broth that Zelda sent up from the kitchen for his dinner the previous night, and she’d seen him occasionally nibbling at thimble cookies. He’d finished his tea at breakfast and half a piece of toast. He _was_ doing better. She’d been sure of it until only a few moments ago.

She checked her watch before knocking on Dr. Hopper’s office door. It was barely nine; she hoped he was between patients. She would interrupt if she had to, but intruding upon someone else’s session wasn’t something she wanted to do. He answered rather quickly, though, and she could see that the office was empty behind him.

“Captain Gold is asking to see you right away,” she said before he could speak.

“He’s ready to come back?” Dr. Hopper smiled. “I have his regular appointment on my schedule, but I can arrange things a bit, bring him in earlier. Graham is off to fetch my nine o’clock, but directly afterward?”

She took a slightly easier breath, glad that the doctor would work Rummond in. “Thank you. I’ll tell him.”

Graham turned the corner onto the corridor, and Dr. Hopper’s attention turned to him. “Ah, here they are. Tell Captain Gold I’ll see him in an hour?”

“Thank you,” Belle said again, and she gave Graham a quick smile in passing as she headed away.

Rummond sat in the same position she’d left him, and he raised his head as she walked over. She was glad that he paid some attention to his surroundings. 

“Dr. Hopper says he’ll take you in next. He has someone in with him just now, but he’s making a space in the schedule for you at ten.” She reached out, giving his sleeve an affectionate tug. “I have some things I have to see to, but I’ll be by again in a bit. Will you be all right?” 

He nodded, though he looked no less fearful.

She was loath to leave him, but her morning tasks weren’t yet done with. The day was a busy one, and changing Strand’s bed had taken time out of her everyday chores.

Belle watched him as closely as she could as she moved around the ward. She sat next to him when she had spare moments, talking about this and that, and repeated all she could remember of what Neal had told her about his day the night before. She let him know that Neal’s night had gone far better, as well. He was quiet, but he responded to her. It seemed like a good thing, that he wasn’t withdrawing.

After what felt like a far longer time than the hour it was, Graham came back for him. A flick of the orderly’s eyes reminded him of his slippers, and he pulled his robe on. He took the watchmaking tools along, not certain he’d feel much like working on Reyes’ watch, but wanting them in the event that he did. 

He needed to tell the doctor what had been going through his head again, and he needed to tell before he lost the courage to. Humbert stayed at his side the entire way. The orderly didn’t press to make conversation, and Rummond was relieved. He didn’t think he could tolerate small talk, tangled as his mind felt.

Dr. Hopper waited in the doorway when they approached. “Come in, Captain Gold,” he said, standing back so that his patient could step past him. He went right to his desk, not lingering in the hallway today. 

Rummond took Reyes’ watch from the bookshelf, placing it on the cushion next to him with the tools beside it as he took his spot on the sofa. 

“I’m glad to see you’re feeling up to our appointments again.” The doctor opened a file, folding the cover onto its back.

“I need help,” Rummond said. He fretted with the end of his robe belt. Threads in the fabric pulled loose, but he couldn’t stop his fingers from it.

“That’s what you’re here for, Captain.”

“No, no, I- The thoughts I- I-” he stammered, and he had to stop to make himself slow down. “The thoughts I told you about. Before. The- the thought of k- killing myself.”

“You’re having them again?” Dr. Hopper asked gently. 

Rummond nodded, the motion quick and nervous. He had expected judgment. Disappointment, at the very least. The kindness in doctor’s demeanor went unchanged, though.

“It’s good that you told me - that you listened to the instinct to tell me,” Dr. Hopper told him. “We can address those thoughts, now that I know.”

“You aren’t going to send me off to an asylum?” He’d been determined that he wouldn’t be at all surprised when the doctor decided it was time for him to be transferred to a fully psychiatric facility. He couldn’t have blamed the man for it.

“Captain, if I sent away every patient who had thoughts of suicide, I wouldn’t have enough patients to count on one hand.”

Rummond sat back into the sofa cushions, his heart pounding as if he’d exerted himself physically rather than simply admitting what had been going through his mind. 

Dr. Hopper made a note to ask the nurses and Graham to keep a particularly close eye on Captain Gold for a while. The trouble they’d had with Nurse Mills, he wasn’t sure how wise it might be to inform her, but the Captain needed to be watched.

“Do you mind if I ask - how long have you had such thoughts? Did it begin after you were discharged, or had you ever had them before that time?” the doctor asked.

“I…” Rummond frowned. “I’ve had the occasional moment of upset, dark thoughts, but nothing like these.”

“Not necessarily the precise thoughts you’ve been having recently. I’m asking about any that might revolve around harming yourself or wishing that you weren’t alive,” Dr. Hopper clarified.

Rummond considered. It wasn’t something he’d connected. They seemed worlds apart. “As far back as I can remember. I never had _urges_ to harm myself, but…”

“But?” the doctor prompted after a moment.

“I don’t remember a time when I didn’t occasionally have this thought that-” He shook his head a little. It had always been there, lingering just far enough back to surface on a bad day, and he’d never considered when or why it was there. Only the bigger, more hateful thoughts that piled on had blotted it out.

“A thought that, ‘I wish I’d died with my mother,’” he finished more quietly.

“And what happened to you during the war made them worse? Or are they similar?”

“Worse,” Rummond said right away. “So much worse.”

“We discussed that you had those thoughts, early on in your sessions. You’d contemplated then how you might go about it. Has it gotten so far this time?” Dr. Hopper asked.

“No. No plans. No fantasies of the thing, itself.”

Dr. Hopper made a mental note of Captain Gold’s responses to his current line of inquiries. It was the most basic of things. He could remember to mark it in the file. His patient didn’t need to see him making notes about it at this point.

“Any time you have those thoughts surface, I’d like to encourage you to come to me. It doesn’t matter whether you’re on my schedule for the day or not - please, come to me, and I will _make_ time for us to have a talk. All right?” Dr. Hopper said, hoping that it would sink in. 

His patient nodded, reaching over to fiddle with the tie around the tool case. He wouldn’t force a patient to talk - it rarely worked, and more often drove a person deeper into themself. Encouragement, though, he could provide. It brought a far better response than harassing someone.

“While you’re here, can we talk about what’s been happening to you over the past week or so?” the doctor asked. When Captain Gold didn’t respond either way, he went on. “Have you been hallucinating while you were unable to function well?”

Rummond nodded a bit sheepishly. 

“Would you mind giving examples?” Dr. Hopper prodded a little further. “I know you have a few that recur.”

He turned in his seat, unrolling the tool case and unwrapping the handkerchief surrounding Reyes’ pocketwatch. He’d barely gotten started on it. It wasn’t until he found a place to resume that he answered.

“Blood running on the floor,” he said, choosing a screwdriver to help him remove the bridge. “There was the sensation of falling. The odd odor of things not there. The Austrian boy.”

“Did he do anything?” Dr. hopper asked.

“Standing. Staring. Wasn’t much he had to do. He’d a captive audience.” Truthfully, he’d been glad the boy did no more than that. There was much more that could have been inflicted, and that had been in the past.

“Though none so pervasive as the hallucination that took hold while you were in my office?”

Rummond shook his head. “No, nothing as bad since.”

“Good,” the doctor said. “I would say that’s very good.”

“It certainly isn’t something I want to happen again. The rest are disturbing enough, but having reality completely stripped away is…” Rummond trailed off. _Hell._ It was hell.

“I have no doubt that it was a terrible experience.” Captain Gold sitting on his office floor in the condition he’d been in was something that Dr. Hopper would never forget. He couldn’t imagine the horror of it on the Captain’s end of things. 

He waited for his patient to add something more, but the Captain only held his attention on the slow movements of disassembling the watch. “I would like to talk about your other symptoms during that time, as well.”

“There isn’t that much to discuss about them. I took up bunk space and breathed. That’s the long and short of it.”

There was more to it than that, Dr. Hopper thought. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe he could solve it all for the Captain, but knowing might provide one or the other of them more information about _something_. “I have a few questions, if you don’t mind it? I suppose that’s the talk I mean.”

Rummond shrugged a bit, giving the doctor a glance. “Go ahead, then.”

“Can you explain what goes through your mind when you’re unable to eat?” 

“I feel sick. When food comes ’round, when that all crops up, I mean. Repulsed. The mention of myself eating is enough to make my stomach rebel. It isn’t always that I don’t want to.” He’d attempted to explain it to Belle once. It wasn’t a thing that made much sense, and it made just as little now. “There are times I’m starving right to my backbone, but I know I couldn’t get a bite down. They bring out the trays, and I could be sick from my toenails on up. I know it’ll come back if I force it, and I just _can’t.”_

“Your appetite - or, well, ability to get food down - it returns, though?”

“For the most part. Never as it was before.”

“Have you been able to eat a bit, since you’ve felt better the last day or two?” the doctor asked.

“Mm,” Rummond hummed shortly, unwilling to begin naming off everything he’d had in the last few days.

“What is it that happens when you find yourself unable to speak?” Dr. Hopper went on, wary of dwelling too long on one thread of a matter after Captain Gold’s responses grew terse.

“I- I’m not sure,” Rummond said, brought up a bit short.

“Not sure what might be happening, or not sure why you can’t speak?”

He thought for a moment. “Both,” he said hesitantly. “I don’t know why my- my _words_ leave me at times, now. The energy it takes to make a sound is too much to gather. It’s what it feels like. Just as well I couldn’t move lips or tongue to make them.”

“That was to be my next question. Can you tell me what happens when you can’t move? I can only assume that it isn’t voluntary.”

“Assume away,” Rummond said. He sighed, knowing that his response was a tad impolite. “No, it isn’t voluntary. I’d’ve dearly loved to get my arse up and _do_ something. I wanted to sit and talk to Belle. I wanted to hold Neal when he came in. I- It was-” He scowled down at his hands. “It was as if I didn’t have anything in me. Emptied out, somehow, and too heavy to drag any part of me to do anything at all, all at once. I don’t understand it, and I don’t know how anyone else is meant to, either.”

Dr. Hopper, having gathered a bit of insight, and hoping that Captain Gold had eased with less fraught discussion, picked up his pen. He made a few notes while his patient took the pocketwatch apart bit by miniscule bit, giving the Captain a brief respite before moving on.

“I would like to backtrack a bit, and return to the thoughts you brought up when you came in today,” the doctor said once he was caught up in transcribing his thoughts. “Is that all right?”

Rummond’s hands stilled for a few seconds with the dismay of having to lengthen _that_ discussion. He had an instant of regret that he’d told the doctor at all. It was right that he had - no one might know and he wouldn’t have help with it, otherwise - but that didn’t make it easier.

“Fine,” he eventually replied. 

“Do you have any considerations about _why_ you have those thoughts?”

 _Because I hurt,_ Rummond thought. There was more to it than simply hurting, though. Guilt. Fear. “Because it’s what I deserve.”

Dr. Hopper forced a frown away. It was a common feeling among his patients, and he’d heard it countless times. It was always a sad emotion to hear expressed, though. “Why do you believe that you deserve it?”

Rummond’s hand closed around the screwdriver handle, tightening until he could feel the texture of it. No matter how often their conversations veered in this direction, it was rattling. “Because of what I’ve done. Knowing what I am inside,” he quietly admitted. He thought of Neal and Belle, how they would react if they only saw. “Knowing I’ll inevitably disappoint.”

Dr. Hopper watched his patient’s still form. Captain Gold had stopped working on the watch again. They were carving layers away from this, though, and getting somewhere. “Why would you disappoint?”

“Oh, I’m nothing if not a disappointment,” Rummond muttered, frowning down at the pocketwatch’s insides.

“Something has made you believe yourself to be a disappointment?” the doctor asked. He didn’t have far to wonder about what, fairly certain that they were headed in the direction of another of his intended topics.

“‘Something.’ I _am_ a disappointment. Always have been, always will be.”

“Who is disappointed in you?” 

Rummond huffed a wry, mirthless laugh. “Everyone.”

Dr. Hopper leaned back in his chair a little. “Can you go into more detail for me?”

Well, if that wasn’t the easiest thing in the world. It was a list that went through Rummond’s head most days. “Disappointed my father,” he said, his throat feeling tight. “My wife. The entirety of the RFC. Surely my boy and Belle before long. Might have already, in actual fact. Anyone I haven’t, I will eventually.”

The doctor gave him a few moments to breathe before going on, pointing out, “You name your father first. Is that because of recent events?”

Rummond clenched his teeth so hard that his jaw ached. Dr. Hopper knew well that his father had been around. Of course someone had told him. He’d known they would open this wound yet again after that display and the repercussions of it.

“He made certain I knew. Often as possible.” He turned the screwdriver so that he held it between his fingers again, needing the distraction of working. “It’s why he made a point of visiting in the first place. I’m sure he got some satisfying confirmation regarding the fate he predicted of me.”

“I’ve gathered that he said some harmful things. Things that shouldn’t be inflicted from parent to child.”

“I suppose it depends on who that child was.”

“How do you mean, Captain?” Dr. Hopper asked, though he suspected where this would go.

“Nothing,” Rummond said. “I don’t want to talk about it. It doesn’t matter.”

“If you truly thought so, I don’t believe you would have remarked upon it.” Dr. Hopper leaned his arms on his desk, over the file. “Would you be agreeable with discussing him a bit more?”

“What more is there to discuss?” Rummond asked, halfheartedly extracting the click screw from the pocketwatch held securely in his hand. “We’ve talked him over and over, and apparently it doesn’t help a thing.”

The doctor watched him, observing the change in his mood and posture. The mention of his father had him leaning a bit more closely over his work, had him making himself just a bit smaller. “I would say there is a great deal more. His visit had a significant impact on you.”

Rummond didn’t reply. He leaned his side into the back cushions of the sofa, frowning as he placed the screw where it wouldn’t roll away.

“Is it that I’m incorrect in believing there’s far more to talk about?” Dr. Hopper asked.

“You don’t understand.” Rummond shook his head, staring down at the watch and trying to make his mind give him the next screw that was necessary to remove. “I couldn’t tell you _everything_ he did and said. There’s too much.”

“I may understand more than you think, Captain,” the doctor said, attempting to tell his patient that there were more than platitudes to his sympathy without bringing his own life into the conversation. “Can you tell me something? Anything that comes to mind regarding your father. An event that particularly bothers you. Will you try that?”

Rummond’s thoughts moved slowly. His father lived in them as a constant seethe of remarks and injuries that he preferred to stay away from as much as possible. Sometimes, though, that wasn’t an option.

He put the pocketwatch on its handkerchief and sat for a while, his elbow pressed into the back cushion and his chin on his hand. His fingers curled in against his mouth, and he looked out the window into the emptiness of a winter lawn. He knew the worst. And it wasn’t a fist or anything his father had thrown or swung at him.

“I can’t say it,” he said, the admission crushed against his fingers. He couldn’t make those words come out of his mouth. He didn’t want to hear them in his own voice.

“Do you think you could write it down?”

He nodded, and the doctor opened a drawer. Dr. Hopper came from around his desk, offering a piece of paper and a pencil, and Rummond set down the screwdriver to take them. It took him a moment to make himself so much as put it in writing, and he cringed as he did. He folded the paper in half, and handed it back with the pencil inside. It was a relief when the doctor went back to his desk before opening it.

Dr. Hopper opened the piece of paper, and then opened and closed his mouth twice before deciding that it might be better not to say the first thing that crossed his mind in response. He looked away from the thin, tremulous handwriting, and to his patient. What father could say something so foul to his child?

_I wish you had run down your mother’s leg._

“Would you do away with that? Please?” Rummond asked, voice soft. He picked up the screwdriver again, needing something to occupy his hands, though he couldn’t summon the desire to work with the pocketwatch further. He couldn’t look at the doctor.

“Of course,” Dr. Hopper agreed. He ripped it into small pieces atop the file on his blotter, tearing it in half and stacking the strips. Repeating the process until it was nothing more than confetti, he tipped the folder over the small rubbish bin beneath his desk. 

“Can you-” He cleared his throat. “Would you be willing to tell me about the situation in which he said this?”

“First time, I’d sold a brooch,” Rummond said slowly. He rolled the small tool back and forth between the fingers of both hands. “It was only a bit of paste and silver plate, but he had plans for it. And I sold it.”

“That hardly seems reason for much anger.”

“My father, he had his eye on a neighbor. She didn’t like him, wouldn’t give him the time of day. He wanted her, though. He wouldn’t let up. Suppose he thought the flashy bit of fakery would get him a foot in the door?” Rummond shook his head. “I didn’t know he’d plans for it. He’d been out and left me in the shop, and a man came around looking to buy jewelry on the cheap. Twenty pounds bought him the brooch and a half dozen more baubles. I thought my father would be proud I’d made such a sale.”

“You told him about it?”

“He found it missing before I could. He raged over how I’d ruined his chances, told me I did it to keep him lashed to me and miserable.” Rummond could feel the same dread he’d felt that evening as he had listened to his father pour hateful contempt onto him. “Pushed me into a set of his display shelving. Told me how worthless I was, accused me of _trying_ to destroy his life, and… said that.”

“Do you remember how old you were?”

“Eight or nine. Somewhere thereabouts.” Rummond shrugged as though it were hazy. Eight. He’d been eight. It had happened three weeks after his birthday, and he’d spent a week afterward with his Aunties.

Dr. Hopper interrupted his thoughts. “You said ‘the first time.’ There were others?”

“I recall the twice.” He remembered it, and very well, too. Some of his father’s actions blurred together into a snarl of hurt. Some he could play out moment by moment as if they were on a reel.

“Will you discuss that occasion?”

Rummond raised a hand to rub at his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. “He’d come home stumbling drunk. Lost his pay gambling and put a night of whiskey on a tab.” He hadn’t known that bit until the pub sent someone to collect for it, but that had been the next month. “Found a way to blame me for existing. He, ah- he said it then. He could barely find his footing, but his hand found his razor strap easily enough.”

Captain Gold had spoken enough of his father that it was disturbingly easy to predict; Dr. Hopper knew what was coming. “He hurt you?”

“Bloody stripes from my heels to the back of my neck.” It wasn’t the first time, and it wasn’t the last. It _was_ the worst, though.

 _‘Take it like a man, laddie,’_ his father had told him the next morning, hungover and without an ounce of contrition in him. _‘Ye’ll have much worse in your life, one like you.’_

Rummond pulled in a breath, wanting the voice out of his head. “Slept on my stomach for a fortnight.”

“No one saw?” the doctor asked.

“No one cared. Everyone knew Malcolm Gold then as well as they know him now. Same man, slightly different reputation.” The Captain made a noise at the back of his throat, and Dr. Hopper wasn’t certain whether it was the chuckle it at first seemed. It sounded pained. “Everyone knew who I belonged to, and they couldn’t have cared if I lit afire. Much less make a fuss over a whipping.”

Dr. Hopper took a moment, swallowing, wishing he had a cup of water. Perhaps something stronger. “And you were how old?”

“Not long before he feathered his nest and moved us off to Stow-on-the-Wold. So… ten.” Rummond remembered desperately wanting to run across to his Aunties’ house, but he’d been terrified for them to see the marks on him. He wasn’t sure whether he’d been afraid they _would_ do something about it, or whether they _wouldn’t._

He lowered his hands to his lap. His head reeled, and the room gave a sickening spin around him. He desperately needed to ground himself. His fingers tightened around the handle of the small screwdriver, and he tilted his hand enough that the work end of it pressed against his thigh. It didn’t hurt, but it gave him a point to focus on, and the room righted itself.

“Captain Gold, your father’s actions - the violence, physical and verbal - he was wrong. There is no excuse for a parent treating their child in such a way, no matter the age.” Dr. Hopper watched him closely for a moment, to see whether he might respond, but the Captain only made himself a bit smaller on the sofa. 

“When he visited you here, what do you believe his intentions were?” the doctor finally said.

“To witness in person what had become of me, I can only imagine.” Rummond looked at the screws lying in the scored lines of the tool case, silently naming them in the order they came out. “He certainly got what he came for.”

“Am I incorrect in believing that he caused harm with his visit?”

Rummond shook his head. It felt unsteady on his neck. He pressed the screwdriver more firmly against his leg. “He made a point of it.” In front of the entire ward, he’d made a point of it.

“Would you talk about some of the things he said while he was here?” Dr. Hopper asked.

 _“No,”_ Rummond bit off. He’d found the end of his tether for the day. It was bad enough, going over and over his father’s behavior when he was a child, but he couldn’t walk back through that visit. Not today.

There was a soft _pop_ that he felt more than heard as the screwdriver blade broke through fabric and skin and slid too easily into the flesh of his leg for him to stop it before it was in up to the handle. He looked up at the doctor in surprise, and Dr. Hopper was on his feet. Rummond had never before seen the man run, but he was across the room and next to him in two strides.

“I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry,” Rummond breathed. He _hadn’t_ meant to, but the pressure and then the pain had cleared his head, and before he’d realized - “I’m sorry…”

“No no, it’s all right,” Dr. Hopper said, leaning over his patient. The Captain’s hands shook a little, as well. “I mean, it isn’t _all right,_ I wish it hadn’t happened, but there’s no need to apologize. Here, no, don’t pull it out.” He put a hand on Captain Gold’s wrist. “Let go of it. All right, stay here, and _don’t_ take it out.”

The doctor raised up and went to the door, opening it enough to tell the orderly waiting just beyond it, “We’re in need of a bit of help.”

“What happened?” Rummond distantly heard Humbert ask.

“Go and fetch Nurse French. Tell her we’ve need of supplies for a small injury. And - quietly, Graham.”

Rummond’s heart pounded in fear of what they would do to him for this. Confinement? More and more, he wondered if he should simply be sentenced to an outright asylum and be done with it. The doctor’s unwillingness to do it didn’t mean that it wasn’t where he belonged.

He heard the orderly’s hurried footfalls grow quieter as they moved down the corridor, and Dr. Hopper turned back to him.

“Captain, do you wish me to go ahead and tell Nurse French about the thoughts you’ve been having? The rest of your ward’s nurses and orderlies will have to be notified, and if you want me to wait, I will. But I thought perhaps since you and she are close…”

Rummond nodded. He felt his leg throb around the intrusion of the screwdriver, and he swallowed back on a wave of nausea. “Tell her,” he said, because he didn’t think that he could admit it to her, himself. 

It was only a short while before heard a set of footsteps coming back, loud in their rush, and nothing at all like Humbert’s. Belle walked into the office without knocking. She carried a basin with supplies piled inside, and her apron pocket looked as if it had caught the overflow. The orderly was only a moment behind her.

“Oh, Rummond,” she said softly when she saw what he’d done.

Rummond looked at her a bit wide-eyed. Without a doubt, she would know him mad, now.

Dr. Hopper looked to Graham, and he found Graham giving him much the same expression. They couldn’t quite leave the office under the situation, but the feeling that they witnessed something that perhaps should have been private was agreed upon.

“I could have taken care of that,” Graham whispered over to him.

“Yes,” Dr. Hopper agreed under his breath, “but it wouldn’t have been quite so well-received. Or so comforting.”

He took the tools and pocketwatch from the sofa, clearing a place for Nurse French.

“I’m sorry,” Rummond whispered to Belle when she sat down.

Belle lowered herself onto the cushion, being cautious that she didn’t jar anything, and sat one foot so that she could face him. She placed the basin on the floor near her foot, within easy reach. With a worried smile, she took his hands in hers, squeezing them. His shook a bit, and she held on more tightly.

“It’ll be all right,” she said, and she let go to reach into her apron.

She brought out the supplies she’d had to waylay Nurse Nolan into opening the supply closet for, leaving them in her lap. Reaching out, she gathered the hems of Rummond’s robe and gown together, raising them toward the screwdriver. She found that the place where it pierced through moved - that and the size of the blade meant less likelihood of any fabric being pushed through into the wound, which was no small relief. 

Belle held the cloth with one hand and reached into the basin with the other, looking for the anaesthetic tincture she’d taken. Catching the glass bottle in the bend of her leg, she unscrewed the cap and drew a bit up into the dropper. She angled it to make a droplet fall into the space where she held Rummond’s clothing off his skin, where it would go into and around the wound.

Putting the bottle lid back on gave time enough for it to work. “Relax the muscle of your thigh,” she told him. 

She touched his leg, double checking that it wasn’t holding taut. Slowly, carefully, she pulled the screwdriver directly up in the way it appeared to have gone in, setting it on top of her own leg. Blood welled up immediately, and she was quick to catch it with a pad of gauze.

Rummond’s breath stuttered, and she looked up. “It’s all right,” she said again, though she was telling herself, as well. “It likely hit a small vein. It isn’t enough to have been anything larger. All right?”

She moved her fingers, checking beneath the gauze. “You see? It’s barely soaking through to the other side, and it’s already slowing.” She patted his leg with her free hand.

He was pallid, but she believed that to be from the shock of it. 

Belle held the screwdriver out toward Graham, dismissing the thin, dotted line of blood it left on her apron. She’d worked days on end with much worse. “Wipe it with a bit of rubbing alcohol before it goes back in with the rest,” she told him.

“There’s a bottle in the cabinet,” Dr. Hopper said, and Graham took the tool, going to find it.

“How did this happen?” Belle asked Rummond softly.

He shook his head a little - not out of disavowing knowledge, but because he was ashamed to tell her.

Belle looked up at him. “Rummond?”

He ducked his head. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Is it anything like what happened with the glass?”

“No. I meant to break the glass. I didn’t mean to do this.” He took a shaking breath, raking his hair back from his face. “I was dizzy. I pressed it to my leg to clear my head. I didn’t mean for it to go through.”

“Dampen another piece for disinfecting?” Belle asked Graham, and he handed the screwdriver off to Dr. Hopper before reaching for a piece of gauze to wet over the mouth of the bottle. She took it, replacing the dry gauze with it, and pressed.

The puncture was far too small to need a stitch. It was closing over quickly on its own, and the blood had all but stopped. She decided to bandage it, anyway, taking no chances.

Belle placed a good smear of ointment and a clean square of folded gauze over the wound, and she took a longer, rolled piece of gauze to wrap with. Rummond’s face went warm as her hands slid beneath his leg to pass it across. She wrapped it snugly around his thigh perhaps a half dozen times before she seemed content with it, then tucked the end smoothly under the edge.

“I have to get back to the ward, but I’ll see you when you’re done here.” She reached up, brushing his hair back from his temple, her fingers grazing his cheek. 

Rummond nodded. He wanted more contact, but he couldn’t ask. Particularly not _here._ He watched her rise and gather everything she’d brought along with her. 

Placing the tools back on the sofa, Dr. Hopper set them down easily, so that he didn’t disturb the way Captain Gold had everything arranged. “Graham, stay here for a bit?” he asked. “I need a word with Nurse French.”

The door didn’t close all the way to the jamb behind them. Rummond could only hear the low murmur of the doctor’s voice, as low as he spoke, until Belle responded.

“I thought perhaps that was it,” she said. “He’s been… He’s behaved a little differently since Sunday before last.”

“There’s no wonder.” Rummond saw the doctor remove his glasses and wipe at them with his pocket handkerchief. “But it happens, sometimes, when a patient is regaining energy from a depressive episode so far-reaching. It isn’t unusual, and he’s been through these thoughts before. I simply believe it would be a good idea to have someone reliable - someone reliable _to him_ \- keeping an eye on him at all times. Until he’s feeling a bit better.”

Belle looked at the crack in the door, and his eyes caught hers. She smiled, but she reached to pull the door quietly shut.

Rummond wrapped his arms around himself. 

_Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic._

Dr. Hopper only took a few minutes to explain to Nurse French what needed to be communicated, and he stepped back inside. Graham brushed close past him to leave the office, to take up a position on the little bench once again and wait for his charge.

He returned to his desk. They _had_ made progress in Captain Gold’s therapy. Dr. Hopper was absolutely certain of it. He damned his patient’s father for stomping in and not only setting that progress back, but causing new damage. It seemed the man was bound and determined to cause his son harm even now.

Dr. Hopper thought to give the Captain some quiet, and to observe him for a short time before letting him go. He expected that it was quite enough therapy to inflict for the day. His patient, however, had a rare moment of speaking out in need.

“How could someone who wasn’t protected ever hope to protect someone else? I couldn’t protect my squadron. I couldn’t protect my son.” He gave a choked laugh. “It all comes back around.”

“Captain Gold, no one protecting you from your father as a child has nothing to do with your squadron dying _during wartime,_ ” Dr. Hopper told him. “There are entirely different issues at play in each situation.”

Rummond spoke without looking up. “If I hadn’t deserved the lion’s share of it, it wouldn’t have happened. I wasn’t worth protecting. They _were.”_

If he could only dismantle Captain Gold’s guilt, Dr. Hopper thought, along with the belief that no one keeping his father from harming him meant that he deserved it, he was fairly certain that he could make more progress with the Captain’s blame of himself over his squadron. There was a connection there in his patient’s mind that was unshakable. 

“Would you tell that child such a thing?” Dr. Hopper asked.

“What child?” Rummond looked at him in confusion. 

“You, Captain. You, as a child.”

Rummond found no more clarity in whatever it was the doctor meant.

Dr. Hopper moved from his desk, turning both chairs that sat on the other side of it. He sat in the one nearer the Captain. “Close your eyes,” he said. Captain Gold frowned, but he did as he was asked. “Imagine yourself as a child. Remember how you felt. The people and things you loved, anything you might have hoped for. Open your eyes and imagine meeting that child now.” 

Rummond looked at the doctor, finding him pointing to the other empty chair. He did as Dr. Hopper said, trying to imagine a smaller version of himself occupying it.

“If that boy were sitting here, facing you, what would you tell him? That he deserved the way his father treated him? Could you tell _any_ child that?” The doctor regarded him expectantly, eyebrows raised in question. “Could you ever tell your son that he deserved any harm done to him?”

It startled Rummond, hearing it put just that way. He had never thought of himself as a child, even so long ago. He’d thought of his current self. It hadn’t occurred to him to alter his view by the doctor’s points. 

It took him a while to speak, to gather himself enough that his voice didn’t shake. “No. He didn’t deserve it.”

“Then does it not follow that neither did you?” the doctor asked. “Can you believe that? Will you say it, for yourself?”

“I didn’t deserve it,” Rummond said after a long hesitation, his voice cracking as he lost the fight to keep it steady.

Captain Gold gave him a look that was a bit gobsmacked after speaking what might for so many others have been four of the easiest words to say, and he closed his mouth without further reply. 

“And nor do you _now._ ” Dr. Hopper sat back, leaving him to think. 

His patient really had been through enough for one day, and it was long past the hour. It wasn’t until the Captain composed himself, calmed and color having returned to his face, that Dr. Hopper spoke again. “Before you go, I need to ask. Are you still having thoughts of harming yourself?”

Rummond considered it for a moment before he shook his head. “The thoughts are still there, but I’m not going to act on them. I don’t want to.”

“They won’t magically disappear,” the doctor said. “There is no instant cure. But, just as they did previously, I believe they will fade as your emotional state improves. Did they not?”

“They did,” Rummond realized. He’d had a broad stretch of time there without thoughts of killing himself. He clung to that.

“I want you to keep in mind what I said about coming to me at any time. If the need is immediate and it’s after my office hours, the nurses _can_ get hold of me by telephone. Don’t hesitate to have them ring me, if you find yourself in need of talking.”

Captain Gold simply nodded, carefully rolling the tool case and tying the strings. Dr. Hopper observed that he hadn’t touched them since they’d been set back in front of him, as if he might have worried what he would do if he had one in his hand again. He waited until the Captain replaced the pocketwatch he worked with on the bookcase before rising to walk with him to the door.

Belle checked her watch obsessively. The usual hour that Rummond took with Dr. Hopper had been up more than twenty minutes ago. There had been unexpected and extenuating circumstances, of course, but that didn’t help her worry at all.

It was near on half past eleven when Graham finally returned with him. She let Graham get Rummond to his bed, and she waited until he’d discarded his slippers and robe before going over. He pulled his blankets around him and sat quietly, not reaching for anything to occupy himself. She sat nearer him than she usually did on the ward, almost next to him on his bed.

“I have my son back,” he said quietly, looking down at Belle’s hand as she slipped her fingers between his. “Shouldn’t that make me happy? Shouldn’t that be making me better?”

“It doesn’t work that way… Good things coming into one’s life don’t erase past troubles.”

“I’m a burden on everyone I love,” Rummond said, pained. “I don’t want to be. I cause misery, and they see it, eventually, and they’re done with me. You’ll see it.”

“But that’s nonsense. Rummond-”

He frowned and looked away when she leaned to see his face. 

“Rummond,” Belle said, and then to draw his attention, “Sweetheart. I know it must feel as if the things your mind tells you when you hurt this way are the truth. But can you trust me? Can you trust me when I tell you that I love you, and that I am not so fickle? I knew well what I was getting into when we began this.”

He raised his head, meeting her eyes at last, some hesitant desire to believe in his expression. 

Belle smiled, drawing his hand toward her to rest on her own lap. “Your son loves you, and he worries for you. As do I. You have people who care very much for you, Rummond, and I’ll tell you as often as you need to hear it.”


	67. Eyes Turned Skyward

“I’ll be taking him to the playground after breakfast _myself,_ so that I can keep a _close watch,_ ” Mrs. Potts said. She spoke to Belle, but her tone was pointedly directed toward Lumiere, who was bringing the China down from its cupboard. He paused in his task, but he didn’t look back. “Rest assured, the boy will have a _responsible_ eye on him,” she went on, speaking all the more loudly for his benefit.

The butler placed a stack of plates and saucers on the counter, replying, “I am not deaf, Mrs. Potts,” as he went back for cups.

She gave him a sharp look. “Though apparently blind, eh?”

Mrs. Potts was still quite irked over Neal being able to abscond from the butler and maid’s keeping, and she hadn’t failed to let either know of it. Often and without sugar-coating. Belle hadn’t been through the same alarm that Mrs. Potts had, but she was nevertheless inclined to let her have a bit of a scold at them over it when the need arose.

“You’ll be exhausted by the time you’re home,” the older woman warned, packing a few things into the small picnic basket for Belle’s trip.

“I’ll be fine,” Belle promised. She took a bottle of ginger beer from the icebox while the cook’s back was turned, slipping it into the side of the basket. “Between the car and cinema, I’ll be sitting most of the time.”

Mrs. Potts shook her head. “Travel is wearying.”

“Which is why I’m taking something to eat, and why I went to bed early.” Belle gave her a smile. “I’ll be perfectly all right.”

She’d been on far longer and less comfortable drives in her life. The journeys to and from and between field hospitals had gone over terrain such as left her bones aching and her stomach churning. A three hour drive was an absolute pleasure trip in comparison.

“Tell Neal good morning for me, and wish him a lovely day,” she said, securing the basket lid and looping the handles into the bend of her arm. She gave a slightly fussy Mrs. Potts a peck on the cheek before setting off toward the front door and awaiting car.

Looking out onto the passing landscape, warped by the side curtains, didn’t hold much fascination for her. She began to wish she’d brought something along to more occupy her thoughts. There was the novel she’d tucked in with the food, but it was for the comfort of having it along, rather than for use on the way. Much to her displeasure, reading in cars and on trains had always left her feeling ill.

When Belle decided to take the day to go into Harwich, she’d thought for a moment of taking Neal along. But it was a long drive for a little boy, and boring, besides. She wasn’t quite sure what she might see in the newsreels, either, and she had concerns that something in them might upset him. He had enough worries regarding his father.

She ended up nibbling at the basket’s food contents to pass the time, setting her book and purse from it next to her to uncover it. Alongside a veritable slab of fresh pumpernickel and a container of napkin-protected deviled eggs, Mrs. Potts had packed walnut sandwiches for her. Belle picked slowly at one, placing bites into her mouth with her fingertips. They reminded her of Rummond, now, and how he’d enjoyed them the first time she brought some to the hospital for him. He had eaten the full stack of them, and she’d been pleased as punch.

Belle pulled her ginger beer from the basket and popped the wire bail up to move the lid off the bottle’s mouth, taking a long drink. There was no bite to it to speak of, but still, it felt as if it bolstered her a little.

Ideation, Dr. Hopper had said. No concrete plan, no method decided upon. It was a good sign, he’d said, talking with her in the corridor outside his office. Little comfort was what it was.

The only reason she felt at all safe in taking her day off was the fact that Graham and Ruby both worked on this Saturday, and Nurse Halloran had the night shift. The young nurse was coming along exceptionally in her training, and Belle was confident that she would keep a watchful eye on Rummond. Particularly so after she’d taken Ariel aside and drilled it into her that she _would_ be vigilant through the night.

East ward nurses had been directed to keep an eye on him once before. She’d known that self-destructive thoughts sometimes afflicted him, and she had worried then, but it had been rather immediately after he admitted himself to the hospital. Now it felt as though she had so much more to lose. As did he.

The more she dwelled on it, the shakier she felt inside. An image crossed her mind of what it would be like, going in to work some morning only to discover him having found a way around their observation, and her throat threatened to close. Even with his cane and more pronounced limp, now, he was far too skilled at sneaking unseen from the ward. It didn’t usually trouble her, but at times such as this…

This fearful spectre of losing him in one way or another to his injury and illness haunted Belle all too often these past weeks. A voiceless whimper jarred her. She pulled a handkerchief from her coat pocket, holding it taut between her hands as she pushed herself into the corner of the seat and let tears come in something near private.

She tried to keep quiet, thinking that the noise of the road and the car’s engine would cover for her. There must have been _some_ sound, though, because Horatio asked nervously from the driver’s seat, “Are you well, Miss Belle?”

“I’m all right, thank you,” she said, opening her handkerchief to dab at her eyes. “I’m fine.”

 _I’m fine._ It rang just as false when she said it as it did when Rummond said the same to her. How difficult it was, though, to tell a person, ‘no, you most certainly are not,’ when they stubbornly claimed that pair of words.

Belle collected herself, drying her face and drawing deep breaths of cold air. She took another mouthful of ginger beer before closing the bottle to place it back into the basket.

The drive was tedious, even if not tiring for her. She spent much of the time watching from the window and eating enough that she could say she’d had breakfast, if Mrs. Potts asked. Once they were within a mile of The Quay, they were near enough the shore that she could smell the sea on the air. She began preparing to get out, tucking her book into a coat pocket and catching her purse string over her wrist, holding a few folded pound notes in her hand.

“I’ll be just on the street here, when you’ve finished,” Horatio said when he stopped to let her out in front.

The owner - a gentleman with a dark, heavy mustache and hair combed neatly back - met her in the lobby. “Miss French,” he greeted with a smile when she approached him, hand outstretched.

“Mr. Thurston. How nice to make your acquaintance.” She shook the man’s hand, pressing money into it before she pulled back. 

“Likewise.” He looked down in puzzlement, then held the notes back out to her. “Unnecessary. Not at all,” he said. “I owe Maurice far more than a showing is worth.”

“Please. I’m aware that I’m taking time and space in your business for what might be the entire day.” She was also aware that the man’s patronage had declined. It was happening to smaller cinemas all over, now that bigger and more luxurious ones were springing up in the wake of the war, and the port had far fewer servicemen passing through in need of entertainment.

He hesitated, but finally accepted the compensation. “Thank you, Miss French. Now, your father said you wish to have a look at some newsreels. Is there anything in particular you might be looking for?”

“RFC pilots,” Belle said, though she knew that didn’t narrow it down overmuch. “Particularly those with squadrons based in France, if you can?”

“Easily done. I’ve a system arranged,” Mr. Thurston told her proudly. “Do you have an estimated date?”

“No, I- Pilots stationed in France is as detailed as I know. I believe it was a bit late in the conflict.”

He gestured for her to follow, and he led her to the theater itself. “That’s quite all right. I’ll sort out a few reels. If we don’t find what you require on the first try, we’ll simply work our way through.”

Belle smiled at his willingness to accommodate her. “Thank you. You don’t know what this means to me.”

“Oh, you are most welcome,” he said, inclining his head politely. The timbre of his voice and his practiced manner spoke of a showman. “Would you prefer the projectionist put the music on, miss, or would you rather watch in quiet?”

“Music, please, if it isn’t too much trouble?”

“No trouble at all,” he assured her. “If you’ll pardon me, I’ll go have a look. Make yourself at home.”

Belle went farther in. The barrel vaulted ceiling and close walls, along with the sense of sealing when he closed the door behind him, made it feel as if the room were isolated from all the rest of the world. She walked down a row of red velvet-upholstered chairs, choosing a seat at the center. Taking her coat off in the warmth of the cinema, she draped it over the back of the chair in front of her, and took her book out for the wait.

Perhaps twenty minutes after Mr. Thurston left her, a jaunty if staticky rendition of “We’ll Never Let the Old Flag Fall” gave her a start as it began to play. The poor old phonograph that piped the music in sounded as if it had seen far, far better days.

The lights went off and the screen came to life, the scratchy first few moments of film rolling before it moved along to the titles.

For two and a half hours, she watched. Many of the reels that the projectionist put on held small sections on France and pilots here and there, though even those were composed mainly of footage in the area concentrated on immediate occurrences at the front, injuries and survivals, and the occasional caught-on-film aerial dogfights that set her nerves on end to watch. It was the propaganda machine hard at work for their side of things. The footage of daily life in the military was what she wanted, though - their boys behaving like boys, rather than cogs. The morale-boosting moments included on reels to keep the public’s spirit up. Belle kept her attention sharp, searching the screen for any hint of Rummond at all, and finding not a jot or tittle of him anywhere.

She felt a bit badly for sending Mr. Thurston back into his collection of old reels three more times, but she had come this far, and he was nothing but generous each time he popped in to ask if she’d found what she was looking for.

After a very long while, he came in to sit down on the edge of the seat next to her. “Honestly, Miss French, I don’t have that many more reels with bits of France and the Flying Corps in them.”

Belle’s heart sank a little. “I understand. And I’m terribly sorry to have taken so much of your time today, but-”

“That isn’t it at all,” he said, giving her a sympathetic smile. “I hate to have disappointed you in your search. We’ll go through the rest of what I have, though, and if what you’re looking for isn’t there, well then, I’ll just make some calls. I’ve plenty connections of my own to go around.” He nodded resolutely, and he gave her a quick wink before excusing himself once more.

After nigh upon another hour, Belle very nearly resigned herself to the fact that none of the newsreels that Mr. Thurston had in his collection were the _right_ ones. 

And then, quite suddenly, Rummond was on the screen. It was in passing, a group of pilots being filmed together, but she couldn’t help but recognize him. 

“Oh! _Oh!”_ she gasped, turning to call toward the projection box when the camera panned away from him completely. “This is it! This is-” She turned back to the screen, afraid that she might miss seeing him again.

A few minutes went on, and still all she’d gotten was the one quick glimpse. It only served to frustrate her, seeing a split second of what she’d spent _hours_ hoping for.

The reel moved to another scene entirely, and the screen was for a moment nothing more than a blur of grey and white. A dark spot appeared, and the camera worked to focus. After a moment, she recognized the growing spot for a biplane. It grew closer, and as the camera achieved a proper focus on it, the pilot tilted back and forth to waggle his wings. He leveled out in plenty of time to land, setting smoothly down on a makeshift runway. The pilot stood, climbing over the rim of the cockpit, and slid down to the ground. A pair of men ran out, tending the aeroplane, and it didn’t take long for one of them to point the pilot in the camera’s direction. The pilot looked over, then pointed to the camera as he looked back at the other man. The man nodded, saying something.

The pilot pushed his goggles up, wiping his face with his scarf, and tugged off his leather helmet to tuck the entire arrangement under his arm. Before he’d fully uncovered his face, Belle knew by the tilt of his mouth.

A younger pilot trotted up, taking his helmet and goggles, and Rummond smiled at something the boy said. The smile turned into laughter, and he reached up, cupping the boy’s face between his hands for a moment. They turned to face the camera and boy scooted close to Rummond’s side. He put an arm around the young man’s shoulders, and she knew without a doubt that this was one of his squadron.

He was a bit heavier, sturdier. He stood taller. The bright smiles and laughter and freedom in his movements - oh, it was such a difference that it made her heart ache. Belle pressed a hand to her mouth, tears springing to her eyes.

One of the men tending the biplane got Rummond’s attention, and he turned to talk, both gesturing at something regarding the craft. The boy wandered away, taking Rummond’s helmet with him. They walked back toward the fuselage, and the camera followed.

A black pilot, broader and a good half foot taller than Rummond, came into frame. By his dress and demeanor, she could tell that he was a squadron leader, as well.

He gave Rummond a playful shove aside before leaning against the fuselage next to him. Without seeming to pay much attention, Rummond shouldered him in return. The man grabbed his jacket by the shoulders to spin him, turning a laughing Rummond toward the camera again, and slung an arm around his shoulders. They gave the camera absolutely blindingly cocky grins, and Belle couldn’t help laughing, herself.

The reel ran out. She sank back in her seat, disappointed that the image was taken away so quickly. She’d seen Rummond, though, and she was glad of that much.

“There’s another from the same location!” the projectionist called down.

Belle waited, more than a little antsy, while the new reel was put on. 

It started up, the film studio name following the garbled handwriting and print of the reel’s beginning. The first actual bit of footage showed a long row of little fighter planes, all lined up and being checked over by their pilots. 

The entire group of boys in their everyday uniforms eventually drifted over to assemble in front of one plane. She recognized the markings an instant before Rummond turned enough that she could see his profile. He had to have the camera pointed out to him once again, and the boys shuffled around him until he was at the center of the line. 

Belle felt a strange, empty sensation in the pit of her stomach as it hit her. Knowing from the account he’d given her was one thing, but _seeing_ his squadron alive and around him was quite another. Each and every one of those boys surrounding Rummond was gone, and he believed it to be his fault. 

One of the boys - a young man with a shock of blond hair - pointed at himself in question before stepping away to move closer to the camera. He held something up. A sweetheart badge meant for someone back home. She could make out the crown and wings around the RFC initials, but the picture was a bit too shaky to tell what was on the enameled banner underneath. A title card clarified and translated the motto for the audience.

_Pᴇʀ Aʀᴅᴜᴀ Aᴅ Asᴛʀᴀ_

_Through adversity to the stars._

The camera panned down the slightly ramshackle line of boys. All had smiling faces, and one held a half-grown dog, white and heavily speckled, to his chest. Belle chuckled at finding that another held a duck, of all things, the bird seeming perfectly content under his arm.

Rummond was smaller than almost every single man in his squadron, but the air about him was _enormous._ There was no doubt that he was the hub at their center.

The line of young pilots looked the picture of dignity, more or less. They slowly devolved into elbowed ribs and shoves and laughter, until suddenly there were three on the ground in a tussle. Rummond leaned his face into his hand. Belle saw a smile on his lips, though, before he stomped over with exaggeration in his stride to command them apart.

They lay on their backs on the ground with him standing over, chiding down at them. It looked as though he gave them a thorough telling off, but the grin pulling up one corner of his mouth utterly betrayed him. One saluted smartly from his supine position, and Rummond took his cap off by the brim, swatting at the boy with it.

The three looked at one another when Rummond’s attention shifted to the others behind him, and then there were multiple hands reaching up for him. His cap went flying as they dragged him down with them, and she could practically _hear_ the indignant squawk as he was overtaken. The boys held on as he attempted to extricate himself, and she saw wild laughter all over his features.

Belle laughed with him, the tears on her cheeks far more mirthful and maudlin than sorrowful. She sat forward, leaning her arms on the seat in front of her. Rummond had been like that, once! He’d been happy, and vivacious, and bigger than life. It made her hurt inside all the more that he’d been lain low and made to feel so small by the events between then and now. 

She found herself desperately missing that happiness for him, and she dearly hoped that he would find a way to have it again.


	68. It Is Easier to Build Strong Children

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt - _anonymousnerdgirl said: "Satan has gotten a hold on me. I want Rummond to dream that Neal had to stay with his father and has to endure the same trauma he faced in his childhood."_

Corporal Reyes had been unable to sleep at all. Rummond knew this because he’d been treated to the clicking of knitting needles from the point of lights out until very nearly dawn. It wasn’t as though he were given to sleeping very much, himself, these days, and the sound was oddly comforting. It took him half the night to stumble across a memory that reminded why.

Each time Nurse Halloran passed by on checks, he asked for the hour, and each time she whispered it patiently back to him. On every pass, she stepped in next to his bunk to have a careful look. He knew that Belle’s instructions were afoot. That in itself was a reassurance.

When the hour, as told, was five after five, he dragged himself up. He was determined to be clean and cheerful for his boy today. He’d managed a bath the night before, but he felt as if at least some portion of said cheerfulness rested upon a shave and washing the sleep from his face, and for that he needed get in before the morning run on the privy began. 

Nurse Halloran had turned the lights on when he emerged, and Jezek waited outside the privy with a sour look on his face.

“Finally got it all washed and powdered, huh?” he grumped, slamming the door behind him loudly enough to draw complaints from the handful of men attempting to find a last few minutes of rest before visitor’s day erupted.

Rummond went back to his bunk. He took another borrowed book from his table and did his level best to read while he waited. 

It was just shy of six when the ward door opened for someone not uniformed in a blue and white dress. As always, Neal came in ahead of Belle. Though he still rushed through the doors, he approached his father more slowly than usual. Rummond beckoned to him, and Neal shuffled over with his customary armful of papers. He stepped close enough that his father could have gotten hold of the front of his coat to tow him in, but Rummond wanted him to _choose_ to come closer, not to be brought over by force.

Rummond held a hand out toward his son, and he hoped that the smile he gave was encouraging. “Hey, duckling…” he said softly. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t much company for you last week. I believe I can do better today, if you want to try again?”

Neal’s lower lip trembled, brown eyes widening. There was a split second in which Rummond was sure that his son wouldn’t come to him.

The little sheaf of papers slipped from Neal’s grasp and fluttered to the floor as he lunged for his Papa, arms outstretched in need to be lifted.

Rummond picked him up and gathered him close, an ache spreading through his chest in regret over having upset Neal so badly, as well as in relief. He was beyond thankful that, through everything, his son was a forgiving little soul.

“Precious boy,” Rummond murmured. “I love you so much. Do you know how much I love you?”

Neal wrapped his arms so tightly around Rummond’s neck that he could scarcely breathe, and he let his boy hold on for as long as he liked. He was sure that the hug he gave in return was quite a vise of its own.

“I love you more than anything in the world. I’ve loved you since I knew you’d exist. Nothing will ever change that.”

His son returned a muffled and tearful, “I love you, too, Papa,” snubbed softly into the collar of his robe.

“You smell nice,” Neal said eventually, after exhausting his need to cling quite so closely. He leaned away, trusting his father to keep him from toppling from the precarious kneeling position on his lap.

Rummond smiled, pressing kisses to his son’s face. “And you smell like…” He made a show of inhaling deeply at the crown of the boy’s head, before pulling back to look at him again. “Crayons and jam!”

In truth, he smelled quite a lot like Belle - complete with a bit of her rosy perfume. It told of hugs and holding, and knowing as much further buoyed his heart.

Neal giggled, and he dropped his head onto his Papa’s chest.

“Tell me about your week, duckling, will you?” Rummond asked.

“Mrs. Potts took me and Chip to the playground yesterday. Chip’s not nice on seesaws,” Neal quietly confided, “but we had fun on the swingset.”

When Belle went onto the ward, carefully balancing picnic basket and teacup, she found Rummond and Neal sitting back on the bed near the pillow, where Rummond placed himself most days. Neal sat in the cross-legged dip of his father’s lap, the pair of them looking at his drawings and talking them over.

Rummond smiled up at her while Neal went on about the red fox he’d seen on the front lawn days ago, and he reached for her, once she set down his tea. She returned his smile and gave him her hand. He squeezed it, letting it slip away when she moved to leave the basket on his footlocker.

Neal’s tale was nearly word for word as he’d told it to Belle when she arrived home from work. She had watched him draw the creature the same night on the sitting room floor, and he showed it to his father now, bouncing as he explained how the fox pounced in the grass.

Belle sat near them, giving them time to finish going through Neal’s newest little pieces of art. When Rummond leaned to place the papers on his bedside table with the rest, Neal extended a hand.

“Can I see?” he asked, and Rummond brought the entire stack over for him.

“You’ve been reading,” Belle noted.

 _“Trying._ Without much success.” Rummond shrugged, one hand busying itself with smoothing over his son’s hair.

She smiled, bumping his knee with the back of her hand. “You know what I’m going to say.”

“‘It’ll come back,’” he said. It was the same every time his concentration deserted him.

Neal followed their conversation, watching Belle as she spoke, then tilting his head back to watch his father.

Belle looked more closely at the heavy book bound in grass-green cloth that lay aside on the bed, its simple, black lettering enclosed in a rectangle. It wasn’t the same he’d been working through.

“What happened to _Anna Karenina?”_ she asked.

One corner of Rummond’s mouth pulled sideways. “You very well know what happened to Mrs. Karenin.”

“Ah,” Belle said simply. He’d found out some way, then. She was a bit glad of it.

“I stopped reading it.” He curled his hand around Neal’s head, covering one ear and holding the other to his chest to block it. “She threw herself under a train!” he said, fervid but quiet, before letting his squirming son go.

Her expression was a bit pained. “You peeked at the back?”

“I had three people giving me funny looks, asking if I knew what happened at the end. _Of course_ I looked.”

“I did try to explain.”

Rummond gave her a somewhat contrite look. “And I should have listened.”

She reached out to give Neal’s hair a little ruffle. “If only he would keep that in mind,” she said, and the little boy laughed at her teasing.

Belle picked up Rummond’s new book. “Virginia Woolf. I approve.”

He hummed, smiling up at her. “Ah, well, since I’ve your blessing.”

She gave him a wrinkle-nosed grin in return for his sarcasm.

“Does, ah- does anything terrible go over in this one?” he asked, having learned something of a lesson from her attempted warning about the previous novel. “Do you know?”

She took his bookmark and placed it between the pages, so that the book wouldn’t suffer from being splayed open so. “Well, yes, there is something. Do you want me to tell you this time?”

“Yes,” he answered immediately. “Please.”

“The central character - she passes near the end.”

“Does she do it to herself?” Rummond asked, his hand beginning to fidget a little with unease.

“No. No, it’s simply something that happens,” she assured him. “Rather quietly.”

He nodded. “That, I believe I can handle. I just don’t particularly wish to read of-” He stopped, shrugging one shoulder as he exchanged a look with her. When she gave him a smile, he saw the tinge of worry to it, and he knew that she understood what he meant.

Unwilling to leave his Papa’s lap, Neal remained precisely where he sat when breakfast was brought around. Rummond ate sparingly, turning aside to sip at his tea and taking bites of toast, every once in a while soaking a corner in beans while Neal leaned from his perch to eat his fill from the rest. 

Their morning filled with chatter and stories here and there about Neal’s week. He repeated much of what Belle had told Rummond in the days before, but hearing his son’s side of it made them new all over. Neal bemoaned the ducks having left the pond that he passed on the way to school, and his father assured him that they would be back, once the weather was fair again. Belle reminded him of the successful spelling test he’d wanted to tell his father about earlier in the week, and Neal basked in his Papa’s pride over it.

“Neal, darling,” she said when lunchtime grew near, drawing his attention from his father’s deck of cards. “Why don’t you go and wash up, and you can fetch the basket when you come back?”

He hesitated for only a moment, beaming more at the idea of getting to bring their lunch over than his reluctance to leave his Papa could extinguish. He extricated himself and hopped down from the side of the bed, hurrying off toward the washroom.

Belle rested a hand on Rummond’s leg, just above his knee, to gauge a normal temperature, then carefully moved it to the place on his thigh still protected by gauze. There didn’t seem to be a difference. “Is it still tender?” she asked.

“Only when it’s prodded on.”

“It doesn’t feel feverish?”

“Not at all. I’ve been checking, as ordered.” He moved his hand to run his fingers along the outside of her wrist. They had a proper excuse, if anyone noticed where her hand rested. “And as I said, I keep my tools quite clean.”

“I’m sure you do.” She looked up at him with a little smirk, a lascivious hint around its edge. 

Rummond caught her look, and his face warmed a bit even as he whispered back to her, “Belle French. Surely you don’t mean to be suggestive.”

“Well, you know how it is, working around the military sort.” Her expression sobered - or she attempted to sober it, at least. “All that questionable behavior floating around tends to be _so_ influential.”

He gave her a look of mock scandal. “And blaming it on someone else, at that!”

The bit of teasing lifted her spirits, and she hoped that it lifted his, as well. She slid her hand down, squeezing around his kneecap. His leg jumped in reflex, and her heart felt as if it skipped a beat when he laughed at the surprise of it.

She was struck with a need to kiss him. It was the most _alive_ she’d seen him in more than two weeks, and she had an impulse of wanting the life in him closer to her. Belle settled for kissing her fingertips and brushing them against the corner of his mouth.

Rummond’s smile softened. He turned his face so that his lips better touched her fingers, and the warmth in his eyes made her longing all the worse.

From the corner of her eye, Belle saw the washroom door open, and she took her hand back as Neal returned. “If it begins to feel feverish, or becomes red, or hurts-”

He cleared his throat softly. “I’ll tell you.”

 _“If_ it does, you might need a bit of neosalvarsan, and I don’t want to administer that unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

“Hm, for an example of the cure being as painful as the illness.”

Neal’s path took him directly to his father’s footlocker, and he wrapped both hands around the picnic basket’s handles to heft it. Belle let him perform the task on his own, though she watched to ensure that he wouldn’t drop the basket, and she gave a subtle hand in lifting high enough that he got it onto the bed.

“Such a good job,” she praised as he clambered up after it. She moved it a bit aside to clear the space between them.

Neal gave her a broad smile as he settled back into his spot. “I helped make sandwiches,” he said, tilting his head back to see his father’s face. “Mrs. Potts let me stir the walnuts and cheese. And I put biscuits in the box for us. They have _chocolate_ in them.”

“My, you’ve been productive this morning!” Rummond wrapped his arms around his son, squeezing him until he began to fuss.

Belle opened a napkin and gave it to Neal to place over his lap. She handed one across to Rummond, as well. She exchanged a grin with him. “I suppose you could put yours atop his head.”

“I’m not sure how that might work,” Rummond said, shaking his napkin open and dropping it over Neal’s head. He rested a hand on top to move the boy’s head to one side and then the other. “Lunch would roll right off.”

Neal sputtered a thoroughly tickled laugh, tugging at the cloth while his father held it. “No! Then I can’t see _my_ lunch!” 

Belle waited for them to sort themselves out of their silliness before she unpacked the rest of the basket, simply happy to see both of them in high spirits. Moments when she glimpsed such happiness in Rummond were rare enough. Now she’d seen so much of it abounding in him in the flickers she’d gotten of his past, she was all the more keen to witness more in the present.

“If you aren’t feeling up to sandwiches, I’ve brought stew, as well,” she offered, handing one of the little triangles of a sandwich to Neal so that he could get started. “Herbed chicken and carrot?” It was one of Mrs. Potts’ winter favorites, and she swore that it kept them all from getting ill as often as they might otherwise.

“I wouldn’t mind starting off with the stew,” Rummond said, grateful for her thoughtfulness. She handed across the small crock, and he wrapped it in his recovered napkin, holding it close to his chest.

Belle tried not to watch _too_ closely, not wanting him to feel observed. It was difficult not to, though, when she noticed that he ate one bite fairly right after another without having to wait minutes in between. She couldn’t hold back a wiggle of delight when she heard his spoon clink against the bottom of the dish.

“It’s good?” she asked over top of her own sandwich, taking a bite to hide her smile.

“Wonderful,” Rummond agreed. “Far better than having cold milk piped in.”

She waited a moment, making certain that she correctly heard the shade of levity in his remark before she responded. “I’m not sorry for reporting you. I’m only sorry that I waited so long.”

“And I’m not angry with you for it,” he said, holding the empty crock out to her.

She reached with both hands for it, cupping them around his and holding them there for a few seconds before taking it.

“I think I might be able to hold a sandwich or two,” Rummond told her, looking over into the basket. “They look good.”

“You can have as many as you like. There are more than enough.” Belle stacked two and held them out for him, pleased with his appetite. His fingers stroked along the back of her hand as he took them.

When they’d settled into eating again, she reached over, patting the mattress behind the picnic basket to draw Rummond’s attention. Understanding, he obliged by sliding his free hand across to join hers, curling their fingers in together. Neal slouched sideways over his Papa’s leg to see what they were doing. He sat up again, going back to his sandwich with a bright little smile.

Belle continued to poke sandwiches and cookies at Rummond, not quite cunning as she thought she was in her trickery. Neal caught on and joined in, asking under his breath for sandwiches and passing them on to his Papa, who also caught on quickly. He exchanged a look with Belle - a little exasperated on his side, amused on hers. 

They’d tidied up and she was beginning to prepare herself to go and clock in for her shift when Dr. Whale came onto the ward. At first, Belle assumed he must be looking for Ruby, since she’d worked the day shift. He looked straight to Rummond, though, and started their way. Her heart dropped.

“Captain Gold,” Dr. Whale said, and neither his expression nor his tone spoke of pleasantries.

Neal pressed himself closer to his father in the sudden presence of a stranger, and Rummond settled a hand across the boy’s chest, patting to reassure him. He didn’t have a good feeling about this visit, himself, though.

“Doctor,” he greeted. “My son, Neal.”

The doctor looked down at Neal as if he’d only just noticed that he was there, and he offered an awkward smile. “I have a bit of news for you.”

Rummond regarded him expectantly.

“Your father has been paying your bill here, you’re aware?” Dr. Whale asked.

“Quite aware.” Rummond frowned. 

Dr. Whale didn’t seem eager to impart whatever it was he’d come around for. “I’m afraid I must inform you that I’ve received notice that he won’t be paying further.”

“That can’t be right,” Belle said, though she wasn’t exactly taken aback. She didn’t think anything out of that man could surprise her. She looked to Rummond, worried how he would take it.

“When does my bill come due?” Rummond asked. His stomach rolled, but he refused to let the instinct to panic overtake him.

“It was paid through the end of the year. He attempted to demand a return of the difference in amount between now and next year, but he has been informed that a paid bill cannot be refunded,” Dr. Whale told him. “Your bill is clear into January.”

Belle recognized the kindness that Dr. Whale was doing. He could very easily have given in to Malcolm Gold’s demands and sent Rummond on his way, but the doctor hadn’t allowed it. She knew that there was goodness in Dr. Whale, but she was particularly glad to see it coming through just now.

That was it, then. The disowning Rummond had felt wavering for three decades, and his father had finally dropped the sledgehammer and disposed of him. Somehow - perhaps because it had been held over his head for so long, perhaps because he’d run from those cruelties twenty-eight years ago - it didn’t hurt as badly as he’d feared it would. Far less than his father’s vile philippics ever had.

Rummond tried to absorb what the doctor was telling him. He had less than two months to become well enough to stand on his own and carry his son along with him. It was that part of the doctor’s news that sent his heart racing. He had to somehow be able to take care of Neal.

Dr. Whale excused himself, and as soon as the ward was behind him, Belle reached to touch Rummond’s leg.

“Rummond…” She tried to head off an upset, just in case it might be on the way. “You’re fine into January, he said. If nothing changes between now and then, we’ll figure something out. You don’t need to worry about this.”

He nodded, and it took a moment for him to pull himself away from his thoughts enough to look up at her. “I’m all right,” he said. “It’ll be all right. We’ll talk about it later.” 

He patted Neal’s chest again, his son having gone silent and tense with the disquiet in the air, and he continued the firm rhythm of his patting until he finally felt the little boy ease. 

“May I have another biscuit?” Neal asked quietly, only reaching out when Belle took one from the basket and held it out to him. He ate it with small bites, leaning against his Papa.

She waited until the last minute she possibly could before leaving them to start her shift.

With some coaxing and a promise of teaching him how to play gin rummy, Neal left his father’s lap - though barely. He sat inches in front of Rummond, giving only enough room for the deck to sit between them.

Belle came around when dinner trays did, sitting with them while Neal ate from his father’s tray. Rummond pulled apart another sandwich in small pinches when she placed it in his hand, finishing the few bites by the time trays were taken away. She helped Neal with his side of their card game when they picked it up again.

She had to go back to work, once dinner was over, and Neal declined another hand of the game. He climbed back into his Papa’s lap, where he stubbornly stayed, knowing that the time for leaving soon approached. 

Belle hated to tell them, but she went by to give the pair a quiet reminder that the car waited outside when they were ready. Neal looked up at his father with a little whine, and Rummond lifted his son from his lap, turning the boy to face him.

“You sleep well tonight,” Rummond told his son, cupping his palms to Neal’s cheeks, thumbs stroking over his temples. “Have good dreams.”

“You sleep well and have good dreams, too,” the little boy echoed, reaching up to pat his Papa’s face in return.

Neal leaned forward to drop a quick peck of a kiss on his Papa’s lips. It was something Rummond remembered doing upon tucking him in when he was smaller, and that Neal’s mother complained of when the boy attempted to give her the same. Something tightened around Rummond’s heart at the fact that Neal had that memory somewhere.

He curled in against his father’s chest, and Rummond hugged him close, pressing his face to his son’s hair for a last few minutes. 

Belle wouldn’t tell them again that Neal had to go. Rummond knew, so she waited. After a little longer, he gently guided his son away from him, and she went over to take Neal’s hand.

The boy gave his father one last, thin, “Goodnight, Papa,” before letting her take him off the ward.

Rummond worked on a watch from his table drawer - more fiddling aimlessly with it, really - after Neal was sent off. He’d managed to unbend a tooth in one of the wheels when Belle began her quick round to tell everyone that lights out was near.

He put his things away and made a last trip to the privy before putting himself to bed for the night. It didn’t take long after the ward was plunged into darkness before he heard a soft rummaging from Reyes’ side, and soon after, the clicking of knitting needles once more. Rummond curled up and closed his eyes, using the sound to soothe himself with memories of nights sitting with his Aunties by their hearth, conjuring up the fire’s crackle and the creaking of their chairs, and their voices, as well. 

A jarring gasp and shivering insides woke him before he realized he’d fallen asleep. He sat up immediately, not wanting to be pulled back into it on the odd chance he actually dropped off again.

God, he was so tired, and he’d _been asleep._ For the first time in weeks, he’d fallen asleep almost easily. He carded his hands roughly through his hair, wishing that he could get his father out of his head. Cruel bastard insisted on haunting even his dreams.

Belle inhabited her corner chair, and with the weather eye she kept on the ward over top of her book, she saw Rummond move. Turning her lantern lower and leaving her textbook on the seat, she made her way over to him.

“It’s fine. Everything’s-” Rummond shook his head when she walked up to his bedside, feeling ridiculous. “It was a nightmare.”

“Do you feel like telling me what it was about? Take out the sting?” she asked, setting her lantern on his table. She sat down next to him, her hip nudging up against his thigh through the blankets.

“Neal,” he said, and at her curious frown, he told her the rest. “And my father. Neal was under his guardianship for some reason.”

She could barely hear him, quiet as he spoke and with his head ducked, even in the near silence of the ward.

“He was doing to Neal the same as he did to me. Neal was-” He swallowed. Crying, screaming. Begging. He shook his head, eyes burning with anger and fear and frustration over a _dream,_ of all things. “I couldn’t help him.”

“Neal is safe.” Belle pressed a hand to his cheek, still overwarm from being burrowed into his pillow. “Malcolm will never get hands on him, and nor will anyone else. He’s _safe.”_

“I know. Safest place he could be.” He fidgeted with the edge of his blankets, straightening the hems together. “It isn’t that I don’t think he’s safe with you. I know he is. I suppose it’s just-”

“You’ve been worrying over what Dr. Whale said.”

Rummond sighed, pushing the breath roughly from his lungs. “That would be a great part of it, I’m sure.”

“There is no countdown, no clock running out. Please, I don’t want you to give some deadline so much as an ounce of your energy,” she told him, stroking along the evening shadow of stubble along his jaw. “Everything will be all right, Rummond. I promise.”

He nodded a little, and she heard him answer under his breath. “All right.”

“I’m so _tired,”_ he said, desperation heavy in his voice, and it wasn’t the sort that could be cured by sleep. He laid down again, bringing his knees in as close as he could with Belle where she sat. Pulling in breaths took an effort. He felt as if something weighed on top of him. 

“I’ll stay with you until you can get back to sleep,” she said.

“And if I can’t?”

“I _have_ sat here all night before.” Belle smiled, taking his hand in hers and holding it on her lap. “Let me tell you what I’ve been reading over again tonight.”

He rubbed his cheek against his pillow, and turned his head enough that he could look up at her.

Belle began pressing gently with warm fingertips, beginning with the tips of his own fingers. “Distal phalanges,” she said softly, smiling down at him as she worked her way through each one. She moved down the bones of his fingers, reciting as she went. “Middle phalanges. Proximal phalanges. Metacarpals,” she whispered, finding them with ease. 

Rummond chuckled softly as she probed at his palm, giving himself over wholly to the feeling of her hands. She moved to his wrist, her fingertips giving gentle pressure that had his eyelids feeling heavy again. 

“I can’t find these quite as well, yet, but I know what and where.” Belle grinned before going on. “Scaphoid, lunate, triquetral, pisiform, hamate, capitate, trapezoid, trapezium…”

She kept talking, though he wasn’t certain what about. She spoke quietly of bones and musculature, giving him names and details until the sound of her voice and the warmth of her so near allowed him to fade.


	69. Seen and Not Heard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt - _anonymousnerdgirl said: “Angsty prompt: Neal’s bedwetting and reactionary behavior act as alarm bells for Belle. In addition to talking to Rum, Belle asks Archie to have a talk with Neal to make a discreet assessment.”_

“Dr. Hopper?” Belle called.

She’d just come off the ward, having clocked out and gone back for her last quick check on Rummond, and she caught a glimpse of the doctor turning the corner from the opposite corridor. Always held up by this or that, and just missing him in the mornings and evenings, she had yet to catch the doctor to talk with him regarding Neal. She wouldn’t let the opportunity slip by her today.

Belle hurried toward the hospital foyer, calling more loudly after him. “Dr. Hopper!”

When she made it around the corner of her own corridor, she found him walking back her way with a curious look. “Nurse French?” he asked. “Is something the matter?”

“Well - a bit.” She caught up with him, walking along next to him when he gestured to the front door. “Captain Gold’s son, Neal? I wondered if I could bend your ear about him a little, if you have the time?”

Dr. Hopper nodded in recognition. “Certainly.”

“I’ve spoken with Capt-” She hesitated, smiling. She’d called him by his given name right in the doctor’s office only days ago. There was no use in the pretense. “I spoke with Rummond about it, and he agreed that it would be a good idea to ask if you might have a chat with Neal.”

“He isn’t adjusting to the changes in his situation?” The doctor glanced over, brow drawn. 

“He’s adjusting quite well,” she said. “It’s what came before that’s affecting him.”

“Ah. His time with his mother.”

“Rummond has told you about it?” she asked, unsure just how much he might discuss Neal during appointments.

They approached his bicycle, and Dr. Hopper slid the strap of his satchel over one of the handles before turning to face her. “Enough that I understand it was a difficult time for his son.”

“I’m afraid it was a bit more than difficult.” An automobile engine rumbled to life in the drive. Belle looked over to find Horatio getting out of her father’s waiting tourer to open the back door for her. Giving him a quick wave to let him know that she would be on in a while, she turned to the doctor again. “That’s what I was thinking you might have a talk with Neal about.”

“It sounds as if he’s given you cause for concern?”

“He has, on occasion. In general, he’s a happy little boy. There are times, though, when it’s quite obvious that something is wrong.”

“Can you give me examples?”

Belle slipped her hands into her coat pockets to warm them. “He’s wary of asking for things or accepting them. Food, clothing, it doesn’t matter. He’s remarked before that ‘it’s trouble’ for us, when we offer him something. He becomes terrified over the smallest infractions. And heaven forbid he genuinely does anything wrong. I don’t know what he believes will happen, but he hides himself.”

“That does sound a bit disconcerting.” Dr. Hopper frowned, blinking quickly.

“A bit less than a week ago, he had a nightmare that his mother was taking him away,” she went on, feeling herself grow a little agitated as she told the doctor of Neal’s difficulties. “He woke to having wet the bed, and when I took him to clean up, he… panicked. I finally got him into the washroom, and he was worried that I might make the water too hot. He’d never once mentioned anything like it before.”

The doctor’s look of concern deepened, but she didn’t yet give him a chance to cut in.

“And I suppose it isn’t the most crucial detail, but he still sucks his thumb. He needs it to get to sleep. I’ve seen him sucking his thumb while playing, a few times, and once while he was doing his schoolwork. He has bouts of worry that his father might stop wanting him. There are times that I know I’ve caught him hiding simply to cry. I can tell that he’s hurting. I really don’t know what else to do.” Belle sighed, having run out of steam, and she looked to the doctor beseechingly.

“He could be clinging to sucking his thumb as a self-soothing action. I’ve treated grown men who regressed to sucking their thumbs or fingers after significant trauma. It’s an instinct. I don’t believe there’s anything at all wrong with it just now - it’ll likely disappear as he feels more secure,” he counseled, then considered for a moment before continuing. “Combined with the rest, though… It does seem there is something there to discuss.”

“You’ll have a talk with him, then?” she asked, her breath holding with hope for his agreement.

“Nurse French, I haven’t worked with children a great deal. It isn’t my speciality,” the doctor warned. “But… I’ll talk with him. We’ll see how it goes.”

In her relief, Belle reached for his coat sleeve before she could stop herself. “Thank you!”

He pushed his glasses up, returning her smile. “It’s no problem at all,” he assured her. “When do you think you might bring him by?”

“As soon as you can spare the time. Would you be able to do it tomorrow? I have the Wednesday night shift, and I would prefer to be back home for him that evening.”

Dr. Hopper nodded. “Tuesday would be ideal. I had a patient usually scheduled Tuesdays discharged today, so I have an open hour. Perhaps bring him by during lunch?”

“I’ll have him there.” Belle was glad of his suggestion; meeting during lunch meant that she could more reliably be nearby without being called away or badgered by a certain head nurse’s intrusion. It wasn’t something that was Nurse Mills’ business, but it wasn’t as though that had ever stopped her. 

“You might bring something comforting for him, if he has it,” Dr. Hopper advised. “It may help.”

“Thank you,” she said again before going to get into the car, bidding him a, “Good evening, doctor!” before Horatio closed the door.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

She waited just inside the front doors, watching down the hospital drive. Rummond’s appointment today was scheduled just prior to lunch, and she hoped to have Neal there by the time he and Dr. Hopper had finished. He’d been nearly as excited over his son’s extra visit as Neal was.

Belle had waited until Tuesday morning to tell Neal about it. She did want him to sleep, after all. She’d awakened him just before heading off to work, and by the look on his face when she asked whether he would like to see his Papa again today, one might have thought Christmas morning had arrived early.

“It’ll be a good deal shorter,” she’d told him, “and you can’t go right to work with me this morning, but you’ll get to see him for a little while. And you’ll get to meet a friend of mine _and_ your Papa’s. What do you think?”

“How will I go, if I can’t go with you?” he had asked.

“Mrs. Potts will put you in the car around lunchtime, and Horatio will drive you,” Belle explained. “I’ll meet you right outside the hospital.”

“Do we get a picnic?”

“Not today, but Mrs. Potts will have something nice for you when you get home.”

He rubbed his face, and then he’d given a dramatic gasp that made it difficult for her to hold back a laugh. “What about school?”

“Mrs. Potts will call the school, so your teacher will know to expect you absent. I believe Mrs. Lapointe will understand.” She’d spent a moment looking for her old teddy bear, finally finding it beneath Neal’s pillow. “Why don’t you bring along Philippe? You could introduce him to your Papa. I think they might like to meet.”

There had been no hope of him going back to bed after he knew what his day held. She’d taken him down to Mrs. Potts for a bit of breakfast and company.

It was still a few minutes shy of noon when she saw the car start around the curve in the hospital drive, and she stepped outside as it pulled up near the entrance. Horatio had barely opened the door when Neal jumped out. 

“How did you enjoy your private car ride?” she asked as he bounded up the steps, teddy bear squeezed to him with one arm.

“I like it better when you’re there,” Neal said, hopping up the last one to stand in front of her. “Horatio doesn’t talk to me as much as you do.”

“No, he isn’t much of a chatterbox, is he?” Belle grinned. “You’ll need to stick with me this time, all right? We’re going a different direction than we always have.”

Neal nodded, reaching up for her hand.

Rummond’s attention had been split between Dr. Hopper and the clock, and he was glad of the doctor keeping his session less emotionally fraught than had become typical. They discussed Neal, as he was foremost on Rummond’s mind, and somehow his and Belle’s relationship had been brought into the conversation. _That_ wasn’t something he was inclined to discuss in-depth. Not with Dr. Hopper, and not just now.

There came a series of quick, small knocks a bit low on the door, and then Belle’s muffled voice. “No, no, let’s sit for a while. They aren’t quite finished.”

With that, any concentration for his own session was forgone. “We can go ahead with Neal,” he said. “If that’s all right with you.”

Dr. Hopper smiled, rising from his desk to go to the door. He opened it to find Nurse French with a young boy in front of her, his coat and cap in one of her hands as she attempted to smooth his hair with the other. The boy spun quickly around and away from her.

“You can come on in, if you’d like,” the doctor said, and Neal ducked under his arm, slipping into the room and flinging himself onto the sofa next to his father before the entire sentence was out.

Dr. Hopper turned so that Belle could step inside, but she hesitated. “Perhaps I should stay out here while Neal has his appointment? I don’t want to intrude.”

Rummond looked up from where his son had him exchanging pleasantries with a ragged little teddy bear. “No, you’re his- his-” He smiled lopsidedly, trying to will an entirely different sort of nervousness - one softer edged and hopeful - away. “You’re his caretaker. You should be here.”

She looked from Rummond to the doctor, and stepped into the office.

Dr. Hopper closed the door after her. “Sit wherever you like,” he offered, going to his desk to fetch a pen and small notebook.

Rummond kept his seat, and Neal had long decided where he was most comfortable. The boy smiled up at Belle, patting the cushion on the other side of him. She had little choice but to accept the invitation.

The doctor looked at his little patient flanked by Captain Gold and Nurse French, and he hid his grin with a look down, flipping to a clean page. He turned one of the chairs around for himself.

“This is the doctor who is helping me to get better,” Rummond told his son. “This is Dr. Hopper.” 

Neal beamed at the man sitting across from them, sticking a small hand out. “Thank you for helping,” he said.

“You’re most welcome,” Dr. Hopper replied, and he leaned across to shake it. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Neal. Your father has told me quite a bit about you. He didn’t tell me who this is, though.” The doctor gestured toward the stuffed toy that Neal held.

“This is Fleep. He belongs to Belle,” Neal explained, turning the bear to face Dr. Hopper.

“He belongs to you, now, though,” Belle corrected. “He’s all yours.”

Neal held the teddy bear closer again, looking up at her with his brows drawn together. “But he’s yours. I can’t keep him forever.”

“Darling, you can keep him for as long as you want him.” She glanced toward Dr. Hopper, finding him watching with interest. 

“Neal,” the doctor said, drawing his attention. “I understand you’ve recently come back to live with your father, and you’re staying with Nurse French until he’s out of hospital. Is that right?”

Neal nodded politely, wiggling back into his spot on the sofa. “Yes, sir.”

“And you enjoy staying with her?”

“Mmhm,” Neal chirped. “She’s nice. And her papa and Mrs. Potts, and everyone is nice there.”

“You like it more there than you liked where you lived before you came back?” the doctor asked.

Neal’s smile faltered. He didn’t answer aloud, but he nodded again. 

“What do you like about living with Nurse French?” Dr. Hopper went on, going back so that he could lead the little boy forward more slowly. If Neal went quiet so soon after bringing his mother up in such an indirect way, there was indeed something sensitive there.

“I get to see Papa. And she’s nice to me. I get to go to school.” His smile returned as he listed the best of what made him happy at Belle’s house. “And I get sweets, and I always gets tucked in.”

“What is your day like there? Start off with waking up.”

“Mrs. Potts or Belle wakes me up. They help me put clothes on and I have breakfast. Then… Horatio takes me to school in the car. He slows down when we go by the pond, so I can look for ducks.” Neal quickly rattled off. He tilted his head, thinking about what he would have done today, if he hadn’t gotten to visit his Papa. “The headmaster rings the school bell and we have class. Then we have lunch. We have class more, and then Horatio is there to take me back to Belle’s house. Mrs. Potts gives me something for tea, and I go to my room to do schoolwork, and I play in the garden, if the weather is okay. Then Belle comes home, and we eat dinner, and sometimes I need a bath, but sometimes we sit in the sitting room before I have to go to sleep.” He took a breath, looking expectantly at Dr. Hopper.

“That sounds like a full day!” the doctor said, smiling at his enthusiasm. 

“It is. I don’t get bored much at all.” Neal watched the doctor scribbling without looking down at what he wrote. “What are you doing?”

Dr. Hopper glanced to his notebook, then back up to the little boy who had questioned him in return. “I’m writing down some of what you say, so that I can remember it. I have so many people I talk to every day, it can be difficult to remember _everything_ without a bit of help now and then.”

“Oh. Okay,” Neal said. That made sense. He couldn’t remember _everything_ that everyone said to him, either, and he was rather sure that he didn’t talk to as many people as a doctor did.

“Were you bored a great deal where you lived before?”

“A lot of the time.” Neal nodded.

Seeing a gentler way in, Dr. Hopper took it. “You didn’t have very much to do there?”

“Not very much.” He looked at his shoes, where his feet stuck out in front of him, and wiggled them. “There wasn’t much to do, and I wasn’t allowed lots of things.”

“Would you mind telling me what a usual day was like when you lived with your mother?”

“Usual?” Neal’s face pinched in thought. 

“An unremarkable day in your mother’s house, on which nothing much really happens. The same way you told me about your usual day in Nurse French’s house,” the doctor guided, hoping that perhaps mentioning the nurse again might comfort him.

The little boy still seemed unsure.

Dr. Hopper propped his elbows on his knees for a moment, sitting forward a little. If he could get some basic information from the boy, he thought he might be able to discern where to concentrate. “How did you usually awaken in the morning? Can we begin there?”

Neal shrugged, his shoulders staying near his ears for a moment. “I woke up.”

“Did your mother come in to wake you?”

He shook his head. “I woke up by myself.”

Answers came only with specific questions and a bit of prodding on that side of things, Dr. Hopper realized. Information would need to be coaxed forth, apparently. “All right. And what did you do after you woke up?”

“I put clothes on and ate breakfast.”

“Did someone make breakfast?”

Neal shook his head again, more slowly. “I found stuff to eat. Mum and her friend always ate before I woke up.”

The doctor had to work to keep a neutral expression on his face. He could see that Nurse French and the Captain were making no such attempt. “What about after breakfast? What did you do? Were your mother or her friend around to play with?”

“They had to leave,” Neal said, a bit of forlornness in the statement. “Mum said he was going to work, and I guess she went with him, because she left, too.”

“That was… every day?” Dr. Hopper asked. “You spent the day alone, every day?”

Neal nodded, seeming unhappy with the fact of it, though not terribly upset.

“Didn’t you feel lonely when they left you alone?” 

“I was lonely, but they _had_ to go out. Mum said grownups go out without children all the time. I got used to it.” Neal looked down, petting the teddy bear’s head. “I like people being around in Belle’s house a lot better, though.”

“What did you do while you were there alone?” The doctor steered Neal back, recognizing how he returned to thoughts of the present for comfort.

“I had picture books from home. Three of them. I remember Papa used to read them to me.” Neal smiled a little, looking up at his father. “And Mum and her friend had music in their room. I snuck in there sometimes to listen. I had to remember not to turn any knobs, though.” He squirmed, uncomfortable as he confessed.

“Why don’t we go back to when you woke up?” Dr Hopper suggested. “What was your room like?”

“I didn’t have a room there,” Neal said, quite matter-of-fact about it.

“Oh?” the doctor said, not having to feign his surprise. “Where did you sleep?”

“Mum’s friend called it the drawing room, but it was like Belle’s sitting room. Only it was way up in the front of the house, and it wasn’t as bright.”

“Did they ever say anything about why you didn’t have a room of your own?”

“Mum’s friend said I would mess up a guest room, and it was easier to get a new sofa if I got it dirty.” Neal tone held the air of having the remarks memorized.

Rummond lifted a hand to run over the back of his son’s hair, and the boy smiled up at him again. It was difficult to keep quiet, hearing what Neal had to say about his time with his mother. He knew that they would get nowhere very quickly if he showed his anger over the situation and upset his son, though.

“Where did your mother and her friend sleep?” the doctor asked.

“They had their room upstairs. They stayed there a lot.”

Dr. Hopper spared a look to the bit of shorthand in his notebook. “Where did you keep your clothes? Did you have a dresser or a table for them?” he asked, attempting to further gauge the boy’s previous living situation.

Neal shook his head. “I put them on the chair by the sofa. They never sat in it, so my stuff was okay there.”

“All right. What about breakfast? What did you usually eat?”

“What was around,” Neal said simply.

“Can you give me any examples?” The doctor caught a confused look cross the boy’s face, and he changed the way he posed his question. “Are there certain things you remember eating for breakfast?”

“Sometimes bread and butter, and sometimes cheese. Sometimes Mum left boiled eggs. I don’t like them.” Neal grimaced in memory. “I can’t peel them right, and I get shells in my mouth.”

“Was there not enough food in the cupboards?”

Rummond held back a scowl. He’d been under the distinct impression that Jones was fairly well off. Jones and Milah dressed as if they were, at any rate. There should be no excuse for not having plenty in the house that a child could eat.

“There was food. There were sweets on top of the icebox, but I was afraid to climb, and Mum said they weren’t mine, anyways. There was always meat and beans and sausages, but I couldn’t have them.” Neal twisted his mouth up a bit, remembering many such _‘can’t have’_ s and _‘shouldn’t have’_ s from his mother.

“Because they had to be cooked?” Dr. Hopper pressed.

Neal shook his head. “Mum said I shouldn’t touch them because they were for her friend.”

Rummond’s jaw tightened painfully, and he caught the doctor giving him a subtle look of warning to stay calm.

Dr. Hopper went on to other meals - surely they couldn’t have expected a child so young to feed himself for the _entire_ day. “Were lunch and dinner the same?”

“Most of the time. Sometimes Mum or her friend cooked something for dinner. But it didn’t always taste good.”

“Did you have a bedtime?”

“I went to bed when I got sleepy. Or…” He trailed off, squirming again.

“Or?” the doctor asked, prompting gently for him to go on.

“I went to bed sometimes when I got scared,” Neal said quietly. “I didn’t have to be scared when I was asleep.”

Belle felt the distinct need to grab the little boy up and hold him. Her better sense told her that this wasn’t the time. Later, though, she could. She looked over Neal’s head to Rummond, and if she’d learned to read his face as well as she thought she had, he appeared to be feeling much the same.

“It’s all right to be frightened, sometimes. It’s all right to not want to be frightened, as well.” Dr. Hopper gave him a reassuring smile, and he seemed to relax a bit. Perhaps it was time to touch on some of the things that Nurse French had expressed concern over. “You mentioned baths at Nurse French’s house. Do you remember how often you had a bath when you lived with your mother?”

Neal gave a quick shrug, looking away.

Dr. Hopper pushed a bit more. “Were there any times when your mother or her friend gave you a bath?”

With an uncomfortable little sound, Neal looked to Belle, then up at his Papa. 

“It’s all right, duckling,” Rummond told him, petting his hair again. “You can talk here.”

“I had an accident…” he said after a moment, his voice small and wobbly. “I made Mum angry.”

Belle had the urge to cover her ears the way she sometimes saw Rummond doing. After Neal’s reaction when he’d awakened her after wetting the bed, she had an awful feeling that she knew at least some part of what he was going to say.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Dr. Hopper asked, further softening his tone.

Neal fidgeted with a handful of his Papa’s robe, pulling the edge over to him. Wiggling himself into his Papa’s side, he felt an arm go around him. He felt better that way.

“I had to wake her up for help, and she was acting funny, and I made her angry. She said I had to have a bath. She made the water too hot. But she said it wasn’t, that it was the way she took her bath, and I couldn’t get clean without hot water.” He remembered how she’d told him, ‘stop whinging,’ and that if he kept behaving like a baby, then she would start treating him like one. Neal turned to bury his face against his Papa’s ribs. “I hurt when she put me in.”

Rummond turned enough to catch Neal under the arms, picking him up and bringing his son onto his lap. Letting the boy sit there with so little contact during this ceased to be an option. He looked to Belle, but she had a hand covering her mouth, her face turned away.

Dr. Hopper ducked his head, pretending to inspect his notes while Neal wasn’t paying attention. His mouth pinched into a tight line, though, with obvious disquiet. He waited a while, giving the little boy time to recover.

Once Neal shifted so that he wasn’t hiding quite so firmly against his father’s chest, the doctor asked gently, “Did the hurt last?”

“My skin hurt,” he admitted. “But it went away in the morning.”

“How did you all get along, you and your mother and her friend?” Dr. Hopper asked, moving away from his previous point.

The boy shrugged once again. “I think they… sort of… pretended I wasn’t there lots.”

“That must not have felt very good.”

Neal looked down at Fleep, stroking the fur inside the bear’s ears.

When the doctor’s first reply garnered no response, he tried a slightly different approach. “What happened when they _didn’t_ pretend you weren’t there?” 

“Mum was nice. Sometimes.” Neal took a deep breath, sighing it back out. “Sometimes she talked to me or looked at a book with me when her friend was gone and she was there.”

“Were there times when she wasn’t nice?” Dr. Hopper ignored the wry look that Captain Gold shot him in reply to his question.

“Yeah,” Neal whispered.

“Can you tell me about that?”

Neal went very quiet. It took him a long few moments to answer. “They were mostly not nice the times they came back at night.”

“How did they behave then?”

“They walked slow and funny, and hugged each other. Sometimes I couldn’t understand when they talked.” Neal frowned. He didn’t like remembering that. The way they behaved when they came back that late had frightened him.

Dr. Hopper made a quick note. A boy so young might not understand, but he thought he did. “How were they not nice? Can you tell me?”

“They didn’t want me around when they came back like that. If I was around too much when they came back, Mum got sad and angry. And her friend said he didn’t want to look at me.” Shifting in discomfort with having to talk about his _least_ favorite things about his Mum, Neal hugged Belle’s teddy bear to him.

“Did they do anything when they were behaving in that way?” the doctor asked. “Anything that upset you?”

“Sometimes they went to sleep where I was supposed to sleep. Mum put me in the washroom with my books when her friend didn’t want to see me. I didn’t like that.”

“Did he say why?”

“He said I-” Neal looked up at his Papa, then to Dr. Hopper. “I don’t want to say.”

Rummond closed his arms around his son, giving him a careful squeeze. “You can say anything here with us,” he said. “No one will ever be cross with you for it.”

“He said I looked like Papa. And he didn’t want to look at me.” Neal pressed his lips tightly together. He wouldn’t say just what his Mum’s friend said, no matter how okay his Papa told him it was. He knew that it was an awfully mean thing.

“Was her friend ever not nice to you?”

“He was nicer when we first went to live with him. Mum wanted me to call him ‘da.’” Neal pulled a face as if he’d gotten a mouthful of something sour. “I didn’t want to, and she got angry, and he stopped being nice.”

“Can you tell me some of the ways he wasn’t nice?”

“He’s loud. He yells a lot.”

“At you? Or at you and your mother?”

“Me. He’s nice to Mum.” Neal’s mouth pulled into a little frown. “He just doesn’t like me.”

“Did your mother’s friend ever hurt you?” Dr. Hopper dreaded the answer, but it was an important question in the child’s situation. “With more than words and yelling?”

Neal shook his head. “He didn’t like me being too close to him or talking to him after I wouldn’t call him what they wanted me to. He pushed me sometimes, if I did. But he didn’t hurt me.”

“Did your mother do anything when he yelled or pushed you? Did she tell him not to?”

“Sometimes she took me to stay in the washroom. Sometimes she made me go to the sitting room, so I would go to sleep.” He’d wished that his Mum would tell her friend to be nice, but she didn’t seem to think he was doing anything wrong. Neal had wondered a lot about it, and whether it meant _he_ was the one doing something wrong.

“Did it bother you when she did that?” the doctor asked him. “Did it hurt your feelings?”

“Nobody yelled at me then, so it was okay.”

Dr. Hopper tried again, hoping to get more from Neal regarding his emotions in the matter. He could see more in the little boy’s expressions than came forth in words. “Can you tell me how you felt, when you thought they were angry with you?”

“I was bad…” Neal shrugged, though inside it didn’t feel like something he should shrug about. “Mum’s friend didn’t like me because I was bad, and then Mum stopped liking me, too.”

It was so near what Rummond had talked with the doctor about when he blamed himself for the way his own father treated him, that it startled him. He looked to Dr. Hopper, and he found the doctor looking directly at him. 

“You weren’t bad, duckling,” he told Neal firmly, hugging him close. “Nothing they did or said to you was because you were bad. The way they treated you was never your fault. All right?”

Neal listened, and he leaned into his Papa’s hug, but he wasn’t sure that what his Papa said was all true. There had to be some _reason_. People weren’t just mean without a reason, were they?

Something touched his back, and he twisted around to see Belle reaching over. Neal felt her patting him. It was nice, and he tried to smile for her, but it didn’t work well and he wasn’t sure why. He rested his head on his Papa’s shoulder.

“Is it all right if I ask you a few more questions, Neal? We can stop whenever you like,” Dr. Hopper said after a while. The boy was growing weary of being prodded at, he was sure.

“You can ask,” Neal said, raising his head to look at the doctor again. His Papa’s hug loosened a little.

The doctor went back a ways in their conversation.“You mentioned having an accident. Do you have accidents like that often?”

“No, sir,” Neal answered. He’d only ever had three, that he could remember.

“What about nightmares? Do you have nightmares often?”

He looked down at Fleep again. “Sometimes.”

“Can you tell me what they’re about? Are they different frightening things, or do they tend to be about the same thing over and over?”

Neal thought for a moment. “Mostly the same thing.”

“Do you feel like talking about what that is?”

“My Mum,” Neal said very quietly. “And sometimes her friend. Sometimes Papa is there, too.”

“What do they do in your nightmares? What does your mother do?” Dr. Hopper asked.

“She always wants to take me away. She comes back to get me.”

“And what about her friend?”

“He makes me go when I don’t want to. And he laughs.” Neal chewed on the inside of his top lip. He didn’t _want_ to think about those dreams.

“What does your father do in your bad dreams?”

“He-” Neal hesitated, looking nervously up at his Papa. The talk with Dr. Hopper was getting more painful. It made him sad, made him feel badly inside. If he talked about this, his Papa wouldn’t want to hold him anymore.

Rummond felt his son’s sudden reluctance. “What’s the matter?” 

“I don’t like this,” Neal murmured. 

“What don’t you like?” his father asked. “This part, about your bad dreams? Or all of the talking?”

“About my dreams.” _All_ of the talking wasn’t so bad. There were some things he had wished he could tell his Papa or Belle about, and he didn’t know how, and the doctor asking him about those things let him talk about them. His bad dreams were something different, though… 

“It’s all right. It’s only a nightmare, and nothing more.” Rummond lifted a hand to brush Neal’s hair back from his face. “You can talk about it.”

“In my bad dreams, Papa won’t stop them. He tells Mama and her friend they can have me.” Neal’s face began to crumple. It felt as if someone were squeezing around his chest, the way it did before he cried, and he didn’t _want_ to cry. No one liked it when he cried.

For a moment, Rummond was shocked silent. He had a part in his son’s nightmares. Whether or not his behavior in them had anything to do with his own actions, he still had a part in them. The thought that he hurt his son in _any_ form tore at him.

“It’s only a bad dream,” Rummond told him. “Nothing in it was real. I would never tell them any such thing. All right?”

Neal nodded because his Papa seemed so certain about it. He didn’t want his Papa to think he doubted him, and he hadn’t been moved from his lap. Maybe it was okay.

“Do you worry a good bit about having to see your mother again?” the doctor asked him.

Right away, Neal said, “I don’t want to go back to Mum.”

“You don’t ever have to,” Rummond assured.

At the same time, Belle told him, “You won’t have to go back to her.”

Neal looked back and forth between them. It was a little comforting to hear them tell him so, but he wasn’t so sure that it was the truth. His voice rose without him meaning it to. “Chip said Mum would come back just like his does.”

“That’s very different, darling,” Belle said. “Christopher’s mum isn’t the same as yours.”

“What happens when _nobody_ wants me anymore?” Neal very nearly shouted, and he could no longer keep himself from crying. He burst into tears, pressing his face to the teddy bear’s head in an attempt to hide it, fingers digging into its fur.

“That will _never_ happen,” his father told him immediately.

Neal’s tears grew more desperate. “But _Mum stopped wanting me!”_

Rummond was lacking for an answer to his son’s particular despair. How could he respond, when it certainly seemed that way? Even as young as Neal was, the boy was bright enough to interpret his mother’s behavior. All Rummond had was what he knew of himself.

“I will never stop wanting you,” Rummond told him. “No matter what happens, I’ll always love you. Neal? Neal, duckling, look at me. I promise you, I-”

The sobbing little boy forced his face away from the bear to look up at his Papa, near hysterics. “You can’t promise! Mum said she wanted me, and she stopped loving me! I don’t know what I did wrong!”

Rummond reached up, cupping his son’s face between his hands, and he could feel the tremor of the boy’s crying reverberate up his arms. He guided a reluctant Neal toward him until their heads touched. The tears shaking in his own eyes ran over, dripping somewhere between them.

“You did nothing wrong,” he said, his voice strained but holding on so that his son could understand him. “The way your Mum and her friend treated you, the way they made you feel, it’s because of _them._ It isn’t because of you. Nothing you did made them hurt you. Their behavior is _their_ fault. It was never yours, Neal. Do you understand?”

There was little that Belle could do, save watch the child she’d grown to love fall apart in his father’s arms. Her hands ached to reach out for him and pull him to her, and the reality that it wasn’t her place was all too sharp. She found her hand covering her mouth again as Neal cried, tears of her own streaming over her cheeks in a combination of sympathy for how he hurt and fury that he had been hurt so badly.

Neal’s breath spasmed as he gasped for more air, and he whimpered when he closed his mouth to swallow. He was no longer quite so frantic, but his crying hadn’t abated by much.

“Do you understand?” Rummond asked more softly, now that Neal had begun to calm a little. “Nothing they did was ever your fault.”

Neal nodded, hiccuping again and trying for a deeper breath.

“I’ll never stop wanting you here with me. Not in a million years.” Rummond raised his head just enough to see Neal’s face, and he wiped broad tear tracks away from his son’s cheeks with his fingers. “I love you more than anything else in the world, and that _can’t_ change. I could never stop loving you.”

His son nodded again, seeming to accept his reassurances.

Rummond moved his hands away from Neal’s head, and the boy dropped forward against him, curling into his chest. He shifted his son up a little and wrapped his arms around him.

“I think that’s enough for today,” Dr. Hopper said, keeping his voice low, so that it didn’t disrupt them. “We can talk about another appointment sometime, if you and he wish.”

Rummond exchanged a look with the doctor. There would be more appointments for Neal, and they all knew it. There was more for Neal to talk over than he’d expected. Even as concerned as he’d been about what his son had gone through, his worries hadn’t surpassed the reality of it. And given the depth and breadth of his ability to worry, that said a frightening amount.

For the rest of the hour, there was no sound in the office outside of Neal’s soft snuffles and hiccups. He rested in his Papa’s arms, with Belle reaching over to stroke his hair while he calmed and recovered.

It was nearly one o’clock when Rummond gave his son a careful jostle. “Asleep?” he asked.

“’M not asleep,” Neal mumbled, not terribly convincing.

“Only a few minutes, and it’s time to go,” Rummond said.

The little boy huffed a bit, but he moved to sit up on his own. “Not enough time.”

“I know,” his father agreed. “I know, but Sunday will be here even sooner than usual.”

Rummond thanked Dr. Hopper, and the doctor offered his hand to Neal once more.

“I hope you feel better very soon,” Dr. Hopper wished him.

Neal gave the doctor’s hand a little shake, and he leaned back into his father again.

With a bit of difficulty that Rummond wouldn’t admit to, he stood with Neal still in his arms, unaware of Belle’s hand hovering behind him out of concern that he might be unsteady. He set Neal on his hip, and right away his son’s head leaned onto his shoulder.

Belle walked at Rummond’s side as he carried Neal back through the corridor and foyer, hurrying ahead a few steps to open the door. They were quiet, the three of them, until the cold air hit. Neal grumbled his disapproval of it, his coat in Belle’s hand.

Rummond set his son down so that Belle could take him to the car, and she bent to get him back into his coat. He weaved a little, clearly exhausted. Rummond knew the feeling. 

“I miss you every day,” Neal said, looking up at him as Belle did up his buttons.

Rummond pressed a kiss to his son’s emotion-heated cheek. He knew that feeling, too. “And I miss you.” He took Neal’s cap from Belle, snugging it back onto the boy’s head. “We’ll see one another on Sunday, though. Only four days, and you’ll be back, hm?”

Neal nodded, and he took Belle’s offered hand. She held it tightly as they went down the steps.

Next to the car, Belle squatted down to wrap Neal up in a tight hug. “I’ll see you when I get home later, all right?” she whispered to him.

“Hurry,” he whispered back to her, and he let her get him into the car. He waved through the window to his Papa as the car pulled away.

Standing side by side, Belle and Rummond watched her father’s tourer disappear up the drive. She reached for his hand.

“I love you,” Rummond said, and Belle turned to find him looking at her. “Thank you.”

“For what?” she asked, shaking her head.

“For taking care of Neal so well. For caring _about_ him.”

Belle led them aside, into the corner next to the hospital’s front doors. The space there was unseen from doors and windows, and it sheltered from the wintery breeze. “I don’t need thanks for that. I’m more than happy to look after him.”

“You’re a good-” Rummond stopped, the word he wanted not possible. “You’re good to him. He needs that.”

She reached up, sliding her free hand around the back of his neck, her fingers threading into his hair. Belle saw him sigh at the contact, and she stroked her fingertips against his skin, watching the way he very nearly melted at her touch. “Yes,” she agreed. “He does.”


	70. Wade Through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt - _anonymousnerdgirl said: "I have two prompts for BTFTB. One is angst and the other ranges from fluffy to smutty. 1.) Could Regina try to take advantage of knowing Rum is suicidal? 2.) [prompt redacted; to be done in future]"_

The winter rain pattering against the hospital windows fell just heavily enough to make the world _seem_ colder than it truly was. It was more than sufficient, though, to make Rummond dread leaving the warmth of his blankets for the privy.

He waited as long as he reasonably could before sticking a foot from beneath the covers. The sooner he went, the sooner he would be back in his bunk. And so he took his cane, put on his slippers, and limped his way across to the other side of the ward.

Belle hadn’t been around as much as usual this particular day. The head nurse had set her about performing inventory of the wing’s supply closet, declaring that Nurse Halloran would be able to handle the beds in her section alone, if Belle had trained her as well as she should have.

As far as Nurse Mills went, she’d been on the warpath. Absent and leaving her duties to Nurse Nolan the previous day, she had returned to work in a foul humor and seemed glad enough to spread it around. Having already made a young man in Nurse Lucas’ beds cry and sent another to confinement over some overblown infraction, she was making quite the day of it. Rummond made doubly certain to keep his head down, in no mood to spar with her.

Looking forward to returning to the warmth of his blankets, he left the privy and headed back in their direction. As he approached Reyes’ bunk, he caught sight of a blue dress on the other side, near his own, and for a moment he thought Belle had found time to come in for a while. It took him a second longer to recognize the blonde bun at the back of her head, far as she was out of her own area of the ward. Nurse Boyd stood at his bedside table, bent over the open drawer. 

Rummond went quietly around into his own space, walking up behind her before he spoke. “What the blue hell do you think you’re doing?”

Nurse Boyd startled, spinning to face him, his belongings still in her possession. If it had been only one of the yet broken pocketwatches, he might have leveled off at irritation, but she held his son’s photograph.

“I’ll thank you to keep your thieving fingers well away from my bunk!” he snapped, snatching first the picture and then the watch from her hands.

She defended herself with an insulted squeak. “I wasn’t stealing!”

Lieutenant Hargreaves, sleeping through the rain, roused and turned over to see what the fuss was about.

Looking at Nurse Boyd in disbelief, Rummond held out the things he’d taken from her, shaking them at her in evidence. “I’ve caught you red-handed! You were _holding_ them!”

For a moment she looked dreadful, but her hunted expression suddenly lifted. “I was looking for a screwdriver! I know you work on those watches, and I figured I could find one here.”

He gave her a doubtful glare. “Unless you’ve taken to repairing watches, yourself, I find it highly unlikely you’ll see anything of use in my personal effects.”

“You don’t know what I might need it for,” Nurse Boyd claimed, having the nerve to be indignant.

“Oh, I’ve every idea what you do with the things you pilfer.” He stepped aside, clearing the path for her. “Go away!”

She hurried by, muttering, “Miserable old curmudgeon,” once she’d moved past.

Rummond watched her stamp off the ward in a huff before he turned to look through the contents of the drawer, checking whether anything might be missing.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

“He practically attacked Nurse Boyd by simple virtue of the poor girl being too near his bed!”

Graham reeled back before he rounded the corner. It was all his day needed, walking straight into Regina in the middle of a tirade. He could live without having a cup of tea with Archie right this minute. 

“I’m certain there must be more to it than that,” Dr. Whale said.

He leaned against the wall, listening. He might regret his curiosity later, but Regina was up to something, and he thought he might more regret not knowing what it was.

“Would you cast doubt on what my nurse tells me happened?” Regina challenged, and Graham heard a momentary click of her shoes on the tile.

“Nurse Mills,” the doctor interrupted, sounding as though his temper was short. “I am on my way to deal with a temporary patch up for a roof leak damaging the ceiling in one of the north wing examination rooms. A repairman is waiting, and costing more every minute I’m delayed. So, if you would hurry this along?”

“This will only take a moment, doctor, if you’ll bear with me.”

“Please find your point more quickly, then.”

“Cold baths ease nervous irritability,” she went on. “Water at fifty degrees Fahrenheit, continually flowing, for at least two hours. Dr. Glass has remarked upon how commonly they were prescribed in his previous hospital. And if there was ever a need to ease a patient’s irritability…”

Graham could _hear_ the self-satisfied smirk in her voice, and it gave his stomach a turn.

“Yes, I do know what a cold bath is,” Dr. Whale said. “We don’t do soaks often.”

“But we do have the facilities for them,” Regina reminded him. “And without your electric shock device, we need _something_ to cool tempers, do we not?”

“The electric cure is not meant for tempers,” the doctor corrected. He was silent for a moment, and Graham knew that the delay in giving in to her demand made Regina impatient. “All right. I suppose it can’t hurt. I’ll have a chat with Dr. Glass later, but I want a fully-detailed written report after Captain Gold’s treatment, nurse.”

“Of course. I’ll do just that,” she agreed sweetly, now she’d gotten her way.

Graham bolted as quickly as he could down the corridor the way he’d come, hurrying to get back to the east ward. He would warn the Captain, move him off to his spot in the supply room, stash him with Archie until he could locate Belle - _something._ A soak wasn’t the worst treatment in the world, but he wouldn’t allow Regina to deal his patient misery for sake of whatever this agenda was that she had against the man.

Captain Gold sat on his bed, blankets pulled up around his chest and tucked beneath his arms, book on his lap. He appeared a bit perturbed, and if he’d had the sort of encounter with Nurse Boyd that Graham suspected, it was no wonder.

“Captain,” Graham said, and his patient frowned as though he knew what was coming. “The head nurse has heard of your encounter with Nurse Boyd.”

Stretching an arm toward his table, Rummond stabbed a finger in its direction. “I caught her going through my things!”

“I believe you,” the orderly assured him, “but you need to be off the ward, and soon, now.”

“What do you mean?” he asked even as he pushed his covers back.

“They’ve twisted it all up, and they’re coming to take you for a cold bath,” Humbert warned, flicking a hand to hurry him along.

“Cold bath?” Rummond was fairly certain it must be what it sounded like, but the point of it escaped him.

“Come on,” the orderly said, hustling him up from the bed. “We’ll just keep you off the ward until-”

The ward doors opened just about the time Rummond was on his feet. Nurse Mills came in, Gardner on one side of her and Quinn on the other, the latter holding a straitjacket draped over his arm.

“Oh, hell,” Humbert growled.

“Ah, just the ‘gentleman’ I was looking for,” the head nurse said, gesturing Quinn toward Rummond.

“The Captain has told me what happened-” Humbert began.

“I’m certain he’s told you _something,”_ Nurse Mills interrupted, sneering at him. “You’ll pardon me if I believe my nurse over your and Nurse French’s pet liar. I can’t have patients attacking staff, you understand.” She looked to Rummond, glee stealing into her face. “I have something to calm you down quite handily.”

Rummond scowled. “I’m calm, thank you, but you keep at me, it might be a short-lived feeling.”

“I see we’re combative today,” she pronounced. “Quinn?”

“You are _not_ putting that thing on me again,” he told her, pointing at the jacket as the orderly advanced on him further.

“We shall see,” she responded airily as Quinn wrapped a hand around Rummond’s upper arm.

Gardner took his cane, beginning to strip him of his robe. “We don’t have to do this the hard way,”

“Please,” Nurse Mills said, leaning too near Rummond for comfort, pitching her voice low. “Make them do it the hard way.”

At that, he was determined to stay calm, to not give her the satisfaction of a fight.

The orderlies pushed his arms into the sleeves, and when Quinn circled behind him to jerk it tight against his front, his resolve broke. The last occasion on which they strapped him into the thing flooded to mind - the solid day he spent in confinement, the room with Dr. Whale’s machine and the surety that he was about to be hollowed into a shell - and he couldn’t _not_ fight it. He stepped back into Quinn, trying to pull himself out of the jacket.

At the first sign of resistance, they put a stop to it. They marched him out into the aisle, bumping the backs of his knees to force him down, and pinned him to the floor to get the jacket on him.

“Now look here,” Lieutenant Hargreaves said from somewhere nearby. “He was only protecting his bunk from a certain nurse’s sticky fingers, and you know it.”

“You might be quiet,” Nurse Mills suggested, venom in her tone. “Unless you would _like_ to join your friend?”

Grateful as Rummond was for Hargreaves’ attempt, he hoped the boy would shut up and sit down, and he was glad when there was no more from him. He didn’t wish to be at fault for the Lieutenant receiving punishment, as well.

The orderlies pulled Rummond into a sitting position. They wrapped his arms across his front, and with the straps for them to hold onto, he had no leverage to pull away. He clenched his jaw to keep himself quiet. Asking them to stop would only humiliate himself and goad the head nurse on.

Graham followed, grabbing for the shoulder of Quinn’s tunic and ready to pull him off the Captain by force.

“Mr. Humbert!” Regina snapped. “If you value your job, not to mention the rest of your life, you _will_ take a step back.”

He hesitated, glaring at her across the other orderlies and his patient, but he forced himself to let go. Gardner pushed Captain Gold’s cane at him.

“Be a good boy and keep that for him,” the head nurse said, and a crawling sensation ran along Graham’s skin.

Quinn and Gardner hauled the Captain to his feet, holding onto his arms and shoulders as they walked him from the ward. Nurse Boyd stood by, looking faintly guilty, though she said nothing. The rest of the ward had gone quiet.

Graham placed Captain Gold’s cane on his bed before heading off to find Belle. He passed Nurse Boyd, pausing long enough before leaving to ask, “Proud of yourself?”

She turned away without acknowledging him, hurrying back to her section at the far end of the room.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

The room they took him to was already colder than the rest of the hospital. Rummond felt the drop in temperature as soon as they walked him in. It seeped into his feet from the tile, making them ache.

A trio of bathtubs was installed end to end down the middle of the room, each encircled by a steel rail attached just below its rim. The orderlies lifted him ungently into the first of them, and Nurse Mills made certain to turn the tap on, herself. Rummond began to shiver in earnest as the water spread under him.

They took a canvas cover from a cupboard at the back of the room to drape over the tub, knotting the ties around it into large loops on the tub’s rail. There was a hole for his head, and they tied the canvas snugly at the back of his neck. He wasn’t given to fear of small spaces, but the jacket, bath, and cover were too much.

“Aren’t you going to take the jacket off?” Rummond asked. The idea of being submerged and unable to use his arms sent another jab of panic through him.

“And risk you finding a way to weasel out of your treatment? I think not,” Nurse Mills said, taking a seat in one of a pair of chairs placed against the wall.

The water soaked the bottom of his gown, running just quickly enough that he could feel as it rose against his skin.

“Go on about your day,” the head nurse dismissed her orderlies. “I can look after the patient.”

Rummond squeezed his eyes shut, tensing his muscles in an effort to lessen the increasing shivering. Frigid cold moved up into the badly healed bones of his leg to settle there as icy knots that felt as if they ground together with every tremor.

“It’s come to my attention that you’ve been having thoughts of suicide again,” she said once Quinn and Gardner had gone. A sneering grin spread across her lips as she watched him. “Sometimes, fate _is_ good and right in her justice. If only she would carry through.”

After a few quiet moments of her staring, he thought she might be done and content to watch him freeze. Luck, as usual, wasn’t on his side.

“Such a shame that the administrator forbids sharp objects on the ward. A wastrel such as yourself would make good use of one.” Nurse Mills spoke as if they had a pleasant conversation going. “I wonder about sneaking something in. Surely you would have an hour dark enough that it would begin to look favorable, sooner or later…”

She was searching for something to provoke him, and he knew it. When he didn’t react to her needling, the smile dropped from her face.

Rummond held his teeth together to keep them from chattering. Water rose around his stomach, and the muscles of his belly and ribs shivered so hard that he hurt. He had to fight to breathe normally as it inched up his chest. The cold threatened to push him into hyperventilating.

“A bit chilly, are we?” Nurse Mills asked, her smirk returning in the face of his response to the water.

Perhaps twenty minutes in, she took a wooden-handled thermometer from the chair next to her and walked over, flipping up the unbound faucet end of the cover. She held the glass bulb in the water for a few minutes before inspecting its reading.

“More or less,” the head nurse muttered. She turned the flow of water down enough that the rigged drain kept the level even, and returned to her seat.

If he knew the time and the water’s temperature, he could have figured how long until he might be in danger. There was no clock on the wall, though. The only timepiece in the room was the one pinned to Nurse Mills’ apron strap, and she seemed to have no interest in checking it with any regularity.

She crossed her ankles primly beneath the chair. “You’re no better than an animal, are you?” she remarked almost lightly.

“What?” Rummond said, since she looked at him as though she expected a response. He immediately regretted it, seeing as she latched onto her carping with more vigor.

“I simply cannot fathom what they see in you. You haven’t money, apparently. You’ve no family to speak of. You ruined your reputation, such as it was. You’ve nothing. You _are_... nothing.” The head nurse’s eyes skimmed the canvas cover as though she could see through it. “Why would a woman with prospects so far beyond you give you a second look?”

Feeling as though ice ran through his veins, Rummond could take no more of her taunts. Not in his predicament.

“What the bloody _hell_ are you sniping about?” he asked, though it came out stilted with the clicking of his teeth. “If you mean to drown me, do try, but for God’s sake, I’d dearly like to know why it is you find satisfaction in my hardships.”

“Hardships!” she spat, baring her teeth at him. “I have no intention of you drowning. I wouldn’t dirty my hands with you.”

Nurse Mills stood, languid and purposeful in her movements. The thought flickered through his mind that she would be a handsome women, were she not so contorted by the hate she poured onto everyone who crossed her path.

She started for the tub, stopping halfway. “As for why? You _know_ why. You can play ignorant for as long as you like, but just know that I’m well aware of what you are.”

A violent shiver ran through him, and he groaned under the tight pressure of it. 

The head nurse at last checked her watch. With a brief hum, she turned away. “The orderlies will be in to fetch you out. In a while,” she said as she crossed to the door, leaving him in the room alone.

Rummond didn’t anticipate her sending anyone in soon. The time went on, though. She was gone for easily another hour, he thought, though he became unsure if it was the condition he was in and the empty room stretching time or whether she truly was gone so long. Nurse Mills had kept Belle conveniently busy all day, and Humbert had been threatened out of acting in his defense. His thoughts crawled slowly by, and after a while most of them began revolving around the worry that he might simply be left right there to freeze to death.

It was somewhat a relief when Gardner and Quinn came in. They untied the cover and lifted him out. Quinn unbuckled the jacket, and Gardner took a towel from the cupboard, throwing it to thump him in the chest with it when he hadn’t finished getting out of the straitjacket by the time it was offered.

His arms wouldn’t work as quickly as he wanted them to. He shrugged his way out of the jacket and allowed it to fall to the floor with a wet slap before leaning to retrieve his towel. The cool air seemed all the more biting, now, and he had to concentrate to keep from making pained sounds in what turned out to be an entire series of discomforts. He pulled the towel around his shoulders and gathered handfuls of his gown, squeezing water from the fabric as best he could with hands that he could barely feel. His joints hurt in protest of the cold that had worked its way into them.

“Suppose that calmed you right down, didn’t it?” Quinn snickered as he looked on.

Gardner didn’t appear at all amused, however. “Hurry it up. I have better things to do than escort you like an incompetent.”

They took him back to the ward and left him at the door, which was more than he’d expected. He made his way slowly in, trying to pull the towel more closely around him. Vaguely, he saw that Hargreaves ran across to him, bracing him with an arm around his back.

“Christ. Go and find Nurse French!” the Lieutenant said far too loudly and too near Rummond’s ear, and he saw a flash of blue go by.

Hargreaves - whom Rummond was rather sure he called ‘blessed boy’ aloud at some point - got him back to his bed. He sat on the side and gathered the topmost blanket to wrap around him, trying to stop shivering before he shook apart. He couldn’t quite remember what it felt like to be warm.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

Belle had realized neither that she was locked in, nor that anyone had been looking for her, before she heard Ruby yelling at someone outside the supply closet door. She went to find out what was going on, only to be met with a doorknob that wouldn’t turn. In the moment it took to hear a key in the lock, she managed to build a rather considerable amount of fury.

 _“What_ is going on?” she asked, but at the expression on Ruby’s face, she forgot her anger.

Nurse Nolan gave her a sheepish look and took off down the corridor. 

Ruby rolled her eyes. “‘Nurse Mills told me to lock it!’” she imitated in something obviously meant to be Nurse Nolan’s voice. “‘Nurse Mills told me not to tell anyone that Nurse French was doing inventory! Nurse Mills tells me when to breathe and use the washroom!’”

Belle frowned. “I thought you’d know I’d been sentenced to inventory again. I told Rummond.”

“Yes, well, Captain Gold hasn’t been on the ward to ask,” Ruby said.

Belle narrowed her eyes and hurried past her friend. Nothing good could come after that bit of news.

“He caught Ashley nosing through his bedside table,” Ruby told her, quickly filling her in on the way. “They had words, Ashley tattled to Nurse Mills, and Her Majesty talked Victor into agreeing for Captain Gold to be put in a soak.”

“Go and fetch me a pile of dry blankets,” Belle said as soon as she went in, seeing Rummond dripping wet and on his bed. She could tell that he shook from across the ward. 

Nurse Halloran made a beeline for her when she went to Rummond, hovering for a moment before she asked, “Can I help?”

“I need a thermometer,” Belle told her. “And a fresh gown.”

The young nurse nodded and went in the same direction that Ruby had gone.

“Rummond?” Belle said. She sat next to him, tugging the blanket away where he had his face tucked into it. “I need you to look at me.” 

Rummond made a sound, acknowledging he’d heard her. He did wish that she wouldn’t move his blanket, though. It wasn’t much help, but it was better than having his wet gown out in the air.

Nurse Halloran came scurrying back in, holding a thermometer out to Belle before she’d gotten within reach. “Where do you want this?” she asked, patting the neatly folded gown held in her other hand.

“Set it on his footlocker,” Belle said, trying to ease the blanket away. “Rummond, here, open your mouth.”

He didn’t quite trust himself not to bite the bit of glass off, but he did as she asked. She slid the end of the thermometer beneath his tongue before going back to his blanket. He held onto it.

“I’m not taking it away,” she told him. “Not yet. I only need your hand. I need to check your pulse.”

Rummond relented, allowing her to pull the blanket away from his arms. She wrapped her fingers around his wrist and reached up to turn her watch so that she could see it. Her warm hand felt like fire scorching his skin.

“Here,” Belle said after a few moments, taking the thermometer from his mouth. His teeth closed so tightly on it that it scraped as she withdrew it. Ninety-two degrees. As though his blue-tinged lips and fingertips weren’t frightening enough. “All right, we have to get you warmed up.”

She looked around for Graham, but he wasn’t on the ward. Reyes could likely pick Rummond up in one arm, but he was in with Dr. Hopper at this time. Belle looked to Lieutenant Hargreaves where he sat watching them from the side of his own bed, and she beckoned him over.

“I need a bit of help. Captain Gold is hypothermic. He needs to be warmed,” she said, standing. She reached out to urge Rummond up from the bed.

Rummond didn’t put up a fuss, but he neither did he hurry. He wasn’t sure he currently had the ability to hurry anything. Getting on his feet with a bit of help from Belle, he took the blanket up with him.

Belle looked up at Hargreaves, expecting him to come around to help, as well. She found him with his robe off and starting on his gown buttons. “…Lieutenant, what are you _doing?”_

“You did say he’s hypothermic,” Jefferson said, giving her a curious look.

“I didn’t mean- _stop that._ Just- button your buttons, for goodness sake. I meant that I need help getting him to the washroom,” she clarified, not having realized just how clear she’d needed to be about what she intended.

Jefferson shrugged, buttoning back up. “It’s the way I was taught to warm someone with hypothermia.”

“Yes, well, I don’t believe we’ll be employing the skin-to-skin method today.” The thought flustered her. “We’re going to put him in a warm bath.”

The Lieutenant dipped quickly down to grab up his robe, swinging it around and slipping his arms in. “Ah. I suppose that might be more efficient.”

“What in Heaven’s name are you doing?” Rummond asked through a chatter that he couldn’t hold back as they placed themselves on either side of him. 

“We need to bring your temperature back up. You’re going into a tub of warm water,” she told him, and between herself and Lieutenant Hargreaves, they got him moving.

Rummond grumbled deep in his throat. “More water. Lovely.”

Once they had him in the washroom, Belle convinced him to give up his blanket. She found a sopping wet towel around his shoulders underneath, and she dropped it aside, as well. It was an awkward thing, but they got him into the bathtub. She turned the water just warm, fearing that making it _too_ warm would shock his system.

His cotton gown clung to his skin, floating up as the tub filled. She left him with Hargreaves long enough to get something for him to change into. The fresh gown Nurse Halloran brought, his robe and slippers, a pair of underthings from his footlocker. She wasn’t sure whether he would be able to handle his cane, but she brought it along.

Rummond closed his eyes, feeling as if he sank into something far too soft to be a bathtub. 

He woke to find Jefferson gone and Belle patting his cheek. She sat on the edge of the tub, splashing warm water up over his chest, looking as though she might cry.

“I’m quite all right, Nurse French,” he assured her, not sure why his words slurred together. “Too long out in the rain, that’s all.”

“Out in the rain?” Belle asked. She was sure he hadn’t been out in the rain, as well. Had he? “And what were you doing out in the rain?”

“I couldn’t find it. Too much mud,” he mumbled.

Belle caught what he was on about - the day she’d had to talk him back indoors from searching the lawn for his wedding ring. His consciousness was slipping a bit.

His eyes rolled back, and he began to slide lower in the water. She leaned to grab him under the arm, keeping him from going too far under. _“Rummond.”_

He moved his hands, grabbing the edges of the tub, and pushed back to better sit up again. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. His brow drew, and he still didn’t seem to be terribly present.

“Rummond. I need you to stay awake, Rum, sweetheart.”

“Belle.” He frowned, looking up at her. He blinked hard. “She put me in a cold bath.”

“Yes, I’ve gathered as much. Nurse Mills?”

“Who else?” he grumbled, squirming in the water. “You’ve got the bath too hot.”

Belle swished a hand in the water, just to be certain. It was still much cooler than bathwater. “It isn’t, really, sweetheart. It’s barely more than lukewarm. It’s just that you’re so cold that it feels hot.”

Rummond groaned, flexing his injured leg. It didn’t hurt _quite_ so badly, now it was getting warm again. His toes prickled and burned, though, and his fingers, as well, as they came back to life.

“Lieutenant Hargreaves was ready to strip and warm you, himself,” Belle said in an effort to keep him aware and talking.

He laughed quietly. “Well, I know who’s on my side of things, leastways.”

Belle took the thermometer from her apron pocket and nudged him into accepting it again. His temperature had gone up a few points, but not nearly enough for her comfort. Gradually, she ran the water warmer and warmer, until his temperature made it up to ninety-six. It was within safety, and she gave in to his mild complaints, agreeing to let him up.

She spread a towel on the floor for him to drip on, and slowly and carefully, together they got him out of the tub. “Your things are on the shelf here,” she told him. “I’m going to step out, but I’ll be right outside the door. If you need me, I’ll hear you.”

He nodded, and she left the washroom. Worry led her to call in after him every few moments anyway, to be sure that he was all right, and it was a relief each time he responded. When he called back to her that he’d managed to get into his gown, she stepped inside again.

His hands shook too much to button the hospital gown, and Belle didn’t take the time to do it for him just yet. She helped him into his robe and overlapped it tightly around him, and draped a dry towel over his head of damp hair until it was dry or he was warm enough, whichever happened first.

It took no convincing at all to get him tucked back into his bed. He burrowed beneath the blankets, still shivering.

“I’ve been wet far too much today,” Rummond grumped softly.

Belle sat next to him, as close as she dared. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t here to try and stop them.”

“It isn’t your fault,” he said, pulling a hand from beneath the blankets to reach for her. 

She took his hand between her own. It was still too cool, though bright pink with returned blood flow.

It didn’t take long, and Belle wasn’t sure whether it was exhaustion from his ordeal or finally being properly warmed through, but Rummond fell asleep. 

Belle was quite certain whose idea the cold bath was. Dr. Whale wasn’t given to prescribing them, and though they were meant to be therapeutic, they tended to be utilized more as a punishment than anything else. She wanted to have a few words with Nurse Mills.

“Lieutenant, would you mind keeping a close eye on Rummond?” Belle asked of him. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

“Of course. Go on about your throttling,” Jefferson agreed, moving from the edge of his bed to the far edge of Rummond’s.

“Thank you,” she said, perhaps stalking off the ward a bit more than she’d intended.

Once she had gone, Jefferson leaned to murmur quietly to Rummond, “I shouldn’t like to be standing in _her_ way.”

Belle knew the word around the hospital. Nurse Nolan had mentioned it to Ruby yesterday, and though Ruby could keep a confidence, she couldn’t keep one from Belle. Apparently Nurse Mills’ previous day’s absence stemmed from having to accompany her sister to an asylum, where the other woman had to be committed. Understanding as Belle endeavored to be of _everyone’s_ circumstances, it didn’t excuse the head nurse’s behavior. The way she took her moods out on patients was reprehensible, and Belle was well past fed up with it.

Belle walked into Nurse Mills’ office, forcing herself calm as she shut the door behind her. “A cold bath?”

The head nurse looked up from her paperwork, a small, self-satisfied smile on her lips. She didn’t reply.

“He’s underweight, barely started eating again,” Belle said, walking right up to the desk. “In his physical condition, his temperature runs low, anyway. You could have killed him.”

Utterly unconcerned, Nurse Mills gave a derisive sniff. “Nonsense.”

“As head nurse, one would think you could display more compassion toward those under your care!”

“Compassion and idiocy are nothing more than two sides of the same coin, Nurse French. A lesson I am confident you’ll learn, eventually.”

Belle stared at her, speechless for a moment in the face of the head nurse’s callousness. “That manner of cruelty and indifference toward life is the reason most of these men are here in the first place.”

The head nurse looked her up and down with some sort of amusement. “You cheapen yourself, defending that wretched thing. If you continue the way you are with him, he _will_ disgrace you. I’ve seen it.”

Belle shook her head. “You’re wrong. And you’re lying.”

“Am I?” Nurse Mills chuckled darkly.

“I don’t know what’s going on here, the target you’ve set on Captain Gold’s back, but I _am_ going to find out.”

“You haven’t the first idea what you’re talking about, girl,” the head nurse said, dispensing with the niceties of title. “You’ve got blinkers on. You’ll find yourself in a gutter, and it will be too little too late to get out of it.”

“You will not lock me in _any_ room again, nevermind your reasoning behind it.” Belle stepped back, squaring her shoulders, having had her fill of the head nurse’s odd accusations. “And I will find out what you’re doing with this vicious game of torment you have going.”

“As I’m certain your pet has many reasons to avoid telling you, I highly doubt it,” Nurse Mills told her, quite sure of herself. “Not until I wish you to.”

Out in the corridor, door closed behind her, Belle squeezed her fists until her fingernails bit into her palms, resisting the urge to stamp her foot. 

“Shrew!” she hissed into the empty hallway, once she was away from the head nurse’s office. “Hateful, cruel, vindictive shrew!”

It took her a great number of deep breaths to tamp her anger down enough to return to the ward. She brushed her hands down the front of her apron as if brushing it away before going back in to check on Rummond.


	71. Tin Soldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts - _Ellynne prompted: “For a prompt, I want cute, fluffiness with Bae. Perhaps Belle takes Bae to see a children's play version of Rumplestiltskin or some other fairy tale he could relate to his dad? I don't know if it's the season for Christmas pantomimes in Belle's world, but surely there were other times of year with children's plays back before TV. Bae could discuss it with Bae and compare things in it to his father and then tell his father about it later?”_
> 
> And _anonymousnerdgirl said: "BtFtB prompt: Neal confides in Belle something he couldn't say in front of his Papa- his mother and Killian would say awful things about Rummond when they thought he wasn't listening or to his face when they were drunk."_

Belle walked the short way down to Neal’s room, to see that he was dressed warmly enough. She’d heard Mrs. Potts’ voice in the hallway outside her door a few minutes earlier, so she knew that he had been properly dressed, but he tended to dispense with his coat if it took too long to leave after he’d gotten into it.

Sure enough, when she stepped inside, his coat and cap lay on the bed and he knelt on the floor with her old stuffed toys arranged in a semicircle around him. He sang something softly over them, and she had to move closer before she caught the words. 

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star…” he sang quietly, drawing the words out long as he positioned the toys to face him.

Belle had never heard him so much as hum a tune before. She took it as a good sign. He seemed happier since the hour he’d spent talking to Dr. Hopper. He still had plenty of moments of insecurity and upset, but as a whole, he seemed… lighter.

“What are they doing?” she asked, leaning down.

“They’re going to a play, too,” Neal told her, reaching onto the bed to take one of the dolls he’d lain carefully in a row. He sat the doll up as if the rest watched her, bending her forward enough at the waist that she would stay where he placed her.

“Are they? Well, it’s a good thing they’re already seated.” She grinned, attempting out of habit to smooth a curl near his crown that persistently resisted taming. She could have watched his performance for much longer, but they would be late if they didn’t leave soon. “We’d better go on, if we’re to get to _our_ play in time, though, hm?”

He nodded, shifting to get his toes under him, and hopped up. Belle sat on the bed, buttoning him into his coat, and put his cap back on his head. He was a dashing little thing in his nice suit of clothes. 

“Do you have your mittens?” she asked.

Neal looked up at her as he thought, then began checking his coat pockets. He produced a pair of little blue mittens from the right one, and smiled in triumph as he put them on.

She took his mittened hand in her gloved one and they went downstairs to meet the car. Mrs. Potts waited for them in the entryway, a pleased smile on her face.

“Have fun,” she said. “And keep warm.”

“We shall do our very best on both counts,” Belle complied. She checked her purse once more for necessities, just in case she might have forgotten something. “I do wish Chip would come along, though.”

Neal edged closer, reaching up for her hand again. She held her purse against her stomach to pop closed its clasp.

“Given a choice between going out to take in a show and staying in with those pulp magazines, he’ll choose the route to atrophy his brain.” Mrs. Potts pursed her lips disapprovingly. “I’ll get him to the theatre one day, if I have to do it kicking and screaming.”

“Well, if he gains enjoyment from his magazines, then I’m glad for him. They do have some fine serials,” Belle said in the boy’s defense.

Mrs. Potts shook her head, and she looked to Neal. “Now, you look after Belle tonight, won’t you? Hold doors, defend her honor, and such. Gentleman behavior.”

Neal nodded seriously. He reached for the front door, letting go of Belle’s hand so that he could put his weight into pulling the handle and getting it open. She grinned, glad that the theatre had a doorman.

After Mrs. Potts’ advice, she had to convince him to get into the car first. Once they were on their way, he began humming the same tune, twitching his feet in time to it. Belle wondered in passing what he might do with some manner of music lessons. She could imagine how his father would respond to the idea of her taking the expense.

She’d called the hospital twice during the day to check in on Rummond, and Ariel had assured her that he was doing very well - or back to his sort of normal, anyway. As badly as it affected him straight away, his hypothermia had been rather mild. He’d been able to walk, albeit with aid, and he hadn’t reached the point of being so cold that his body went through to the other side of ceasing to shiver. He’d kept his senses, for the most part, save the few moments around fainting when she was trying to re-warm him. His fingers and toes suffered no lasting effects, once they’d been completely warmed through. The tenderness had dissipated the next day. His pulse had come back up just fine, as well.

Nurse Mills had attempted to strongarm her into finishing the supply inventory on Friday. After an exchange of very public, very tense, and painfully civil words (during which Belle was quite proud to say she’d kept her temper very even, indeed), she got the message across that her inventory days were finished, as long as she held no key to the door. With so many eyes on their conversation, Nurse Mills had permitted her resistance with a great deal of begrudging and let her be.

She was aware that there would almost certainly be repercussions for challenging the head nurse, but she wouldn’t bother to dwell on that just now. She wouldn’t allow her evening to be ruined by the woman’s venom even away from the hospital.

It wasn’t a long drive - less than half an hour. Not even enough time for Neal to grow restless. He chattered about houses with lights in the windows as they passed, and once turned around in the seat to look out the back in fascination at a nun on a bicycle going the opposite way. Belle listened, glad to see him so cheerful.

They arrived just in time to be seated before the main lights went down and the curtain went up. The small theatre in town wasn’t terribly crowded, though she hadn’t expected it to be. The shows meant for children didn’t often bring in as large an audience as those put on solely for adults. She wanted to take him along to a longer play sometime, but she thought their trip out this evening would help to acclimate him to it.

On stage there stood three rows of young men standing diagonal to the audience, all decked out in old-fashioned Danish military uniforms, complete with feathered shakos and muskets with bayonets. The back row held one extra boy, making him stick out conspicuously.

“Once upon a time, there were five and twenty little tin soldiers,” a narrator at one corner of the stage said, his voice ringing out loud and clear. “All brothers, they were cast from the same tin spoon. The first sound that their ears heard was a child’s shout.”

A little boy ran out onto stage, walking back and forth in front of them. “Tin soldiers!” he cried, beginning to jump about in excitement. 

The narration went on. “All of the soldiers were perfectly the same… save one. As he’d been cast with the last bit of tin from the spoon, there hadn’t been left quite enough to make up all of him, and so he only had one leg to hold him up. It made no difference. He stood as firmly on his one leg as the rest of his brothers stood on two. They made fun of him, declaring that he was unwelcome in their box.”

The stage lights went down for a moment, and Belle looked over at Neal. He watched, enraptured and waiting. When the lights were turned back on, there was a castle backdrop, and many other ‘toys’ stood there with the soldiers.

“In the child’s room, cozy and warmed by a stove, there were many more toys. There was a marvelous wooden castle with turrets and a drawbridge, and a mirror lake with waxen swans. It was a beautiful castle, but the tin soldier saw something much more beautiful.” The narration paused while a girl in a ballerina costume leapt forward onto the castle drawbridge. “A paper ballerina caught his eye. She wore a dress of fine gauze and a bright blue ribbon pinned with a golden spangle. The ballerina held her arms out as if ready to embrace, and one leg lifted so high _en arabesque_ that the tin soldier couldn’t see it. He supposed that she had only one leg, the same as he.”

The other toys took a subtle step back, allowing the soldier and ballerina to remain in the forefront. “‘Why, perhaps she would be my wife,’ the tin soldier thought. He wondered, though, if she would even have him. After all, she lived in a castle, and he lived in a box with all of his brothers. She wouldn’t very well trade her castle for that, and he became sure that she couldn’t love him in return. But he wanted so to meet her, still.”

Suddenly the boy playing the one-legged soldier dropped onto his side. The audience laughed, and Belle looked to Neal to find him giggling.

“Ever at attention, the tin soldier dropped himself next to a jack-in-the-box, where he could see the lovely ballerina who never lost her balance. Evening arrived, and the other soldiers were put into their box, but the tin soldier was overlooked. The toys played amongst themselves, holding glorious balls and staging wars.” The toys on stage erupted in pandemonium, only the tin soldier and ballerina remaining still. “But the tin soldier couldn’t take his eyes off of the beautiful ballerina who seemed to hold her arms all the wider to him.”

With a bang, the lid of the person-sized jack-in-the-box popped open, and someone in a costume that even Belle found a bit intimidating jumped up to be seen. “As the night went on, the toys calmed down, going back to their homes on the child’s play table. One, however, came to life. ‘Mind your own business! Leave her alone!’ the jack-in-the-box snapped at the tin soldier, but he pretended that he didn’t hear. The jack-in-the-box issued a threat. ‘Just you wait until morning!’”

The lights on the stage went down again. When they came up, a backdrop of sky and clouds had replaced the castle, and all except the soldier had gone. “The tin soldier watched the ballerina as dawn broke, and she watched him in return. When the child awoke, he found the toppled soldier and set up him upon the ledge of the open window.” There was the sound of wind, and the young man swayed left and right, as if falling, and suddenly bent backward to bring himself up in a handstand. “The tin soldier couldn’t be certain whether it was a breeze or the jack-in-the-box’s threat, but he was blown from the ledge and fell the long, long way to the paving stones below. His bayonet stuck between two of them, his one leg standing up in the air instead of his head.”

The little boy ran back on stage, and he called toward the wing for help. “The child called for his nurse and mother, and they all searched for the tin soldier. They very nearly trampled him, though they never saw. If he had cried out to them, he would have been saved. However, the tin soldier felt that it was unbecoming a soldier to call out.”

Belle looked to Neal, and she found him frowning, nibbling on the inside of his lip. She moved her arm to curl it around his shoulders. “All right?” she whispered. He nodded, though he scooted closer to the armrest nearer her.

Sounds of ‘thunder’ crashed from somewhere, and the stage lights flickered in imitation of lightning. “It began to rain, a drizzle and then a downpour, and the tin soldier waited it through. When the rain had gone, two mischief-makers came along and found him.” The soldier turned himself right side up, bringing a prop in the shape of a paper boat up from the floor with him. “Together, they made a folded boat of newspaper, placing the tin soldier into it, and sailed him along in the rushing water of the gutter. Oh, the boat wobbled and tossed, leaning so that the soldier feared he would fall out. He stood steady, though, not once flinching at the possibilities.”

The stage lights dimmed a bit, and the storm sounds at last ceased. “Suddenly, the boat was washed into the drain, and he was plunged into darkness. He was certain that this was the jack-in-the-box’s threat. ‘If only the ballerina were with me,’ the tin soldier thought, ‘I wouldn’t mind all the darkness in the world.’” When the lights brightened again, with them came the sound of running water. “Then he saw daylight. Along with daylight came a great roar - a roar that would frighten the most courageous of us all! The newspaper boat dropped into an expanse of water, the paper itself gone soft and limp, and it tore away. He fell into the water, sinking down, down, down. Still the poor tin soldier stood steady, thinking of only the lovely ballerina he would never again see.”

A great fish made of some sort of glistening fabric wobbled its way onto the stage, three pair of feet barely visible beneath its belly. It ‘swam’ along in front of the soldier, and he disappeared as the fish passed into the other wing. Neal’s eyes went wide at the spectacle of it.

“Just as the soldier thought he would be buried in the sand at the bottom of the water, a fish swam by, swallowing him up. And oh, how dark it is inside a fish! Far darker than the nighttime in the child’s room, and far, far darker than the drain.” The fish came back the other way, going to center stage and dropping to the floor before the lights went down again. “The fish began to twist this way and that, and the tin soldier wondered what was happening to him. At last, the fish lay still.”

Belle watched as Neal tried to sit higher in his seat, attempting to get a better look at the now motionless fabric fish.

“It seemed eternity stretched on before the tin soldier. After a while, something silver pierced the fish right next to him, and he found daylight once more. A familiar voice cried, ‘The tin soldier!’” The narrator waited until the lights came up to show the little boy and his parents surrounding the fish. “The fish - caught, sold, bought from the grocer, and cooked - had found itself on the dining table of the child’s family. The child’s mother washed him off and the family passed him around the table. Everyone wanted to have a look at the little soldier who had made such a strange journey. At the end of the meal, the child took him back to his play table, setting him beside his brothers once again.”

Once more, the stage lights went dark and came up again, and the props and backdrop for the little boy’s room had returned. “There, on the castle drawbridge, stood the beautiful little ballerina. She remained, as always, on one leg, and the tin soldier felt such love for her that he would have cried tin tears, had he been able. He would go to her, he decided, when the child went to bed.” The little boy went to the soldier, escorting him on a hopping path over to an open potbelly stove. “But seeing that the tin soldier’s adventures had left him dented and scarred and without much of his paint, the child separated him from his four and twenty brothers, tossing him into the stove. For no reason at all, the tin soldier thought. It must have been the jack-in-the-box’s threat coming to pass.”

A wavering orange light cast on the soldier, and he began to slouch smaller. “Doing his very best to remain steady, the tin soldier stood in the licking flames. He felt himself melting away, but he stood steadfast on his one leg, looking up at the paper ballerina in love and grief that they were being parted forever.” The girl in her ballerina costume set off spinning toward the soldier. “A breeze blew in through the open window, carrying the beautiful ballerina off the table. She floated like a butterfly on the air, and she landed in the stove with the soldier. She didn’t melt as he was, though. In a flash of fire, her paper and gauze and ribbon were gone. The tin soldier melted straight afterward.”

At Neal’s crestfallen expression, Belle squeezed her arm around him. She leaned close to whisper down to him. “It’ll be all right. Wait and see.”

“In the morning, when the ashes were being swept up, the child’s mother found a small tin heart lying among them, a tiny golden spangle stuck in its center. Little did the child’s mother know that the tin soldier and ballerina didn’t simply fizzle out like so much tin and paper.” The orange light was stopped, and a blue light took its place. The soldier and ballerina stood, wrapping their arms around one another. “The toys, dispatched by careless wind and hands, found one another in Heaven. The tin soldier and paper ballerina at last embraced, holding to one another, and together, they danced.”

Neal looked around as people began to clap, and he joined in the applause. Belle was glad to see that his frown had gone. He seemed happy with the outcome. She wouldn’t tell him that it had never truly satisfied her. She’d have rather they escaped the stove in some way, but stories were stories, she supposed.

They left the theatre in a steady flow of people, finding Horatio waiting for them. They also found a nice rainshower of their own in progress.

“Let’s wait until the rain stops,” Belle said, taking Neal’s hand to be sure that he didn’t run out into it.

He leaned toward the heavier stream of water that poured from the corner of the theatre’s overhang. “When will it stop?”

“Well… When the clouds move on, or when they’re empty,” she explained.

Neal leaned to look again, this time giving the sky a little scowl.

“What’s the matter?” Belle asked.

“They look very full,” he said thoughtfully. “Slow and very full.”

She laughed, swinging his hand gently. “Come on,” she said, guiding him back into the foyer. “It won’t be terribly long.”

Belle sat on a small sofa with a couple of older women to wait out the rain, and Neal stood next to her, leaning against her leg.

“The tin soldier made me think of Papa,” he told her softly.

“Did he?” Belle said, giving him a smile. “Why do you say that?”

“The soldier’s leg was hurt, and Papa’s leg is hurt. He found a ballerina for a friend, and Papa found a nurse to be his friend.” Neal smiled back up at her, patting her arm affectionately with both hands. “The other soldiers made fun off the tin soldier, and…” He stopped, twisting his mouth up and looking down at Belle’s lap, reaching to play with the fringe on the bottom of her purse.

“And what, darling?” she asked.

“I heard somebody say stuff making fun of Papa,” he murmured, and she could barely hear him over the percussion of the rain outside. 

Belle felt defensive of Rummond right away. if she found out that someone in the house had been saying unkind things about him, much less where Neal could hear them… “Who did you hear?”

“Mum and her friend,” Neal confided. “They said stuff to each other about him.”

“Would you tell me about what they said?” she asked. Though she wasn’t terribly certain she wanted to hear it, it was more important that he not keep such things bound up inside when it clearly bothered him.

She leaned to listen closely to Neal’s hesitant relaying of remarks, curling her arm around him in reassurance. He spoke of his mother discussing her and his father’s ‘bedtime’ with her friend, and of coming in late one night and telling Neal a confused tale that Belle parsed as some warped version of Rummond’s ordeal in Germany. 

“Everything they said was wrong, darling. For many reasons, but mostly because it’s all untrue.” She reached up, stroking the back of her fingers over Neal’s reddened cheek. “You didn’t tell Dr. Hopper these things.”

“I didn’t want Papa to hear,” he admitted. “It made me sad to hear them say bad stuff about Papa that way, and I don’t want to make Papa sad like that.”

Speechless for a moment, Belle leaned to press a kiss to the top of Neal’s head. “You’re a sweet boy,” she told him. “Always stay that way. All right?”

He leaned more closely against her, and she wrapped him up in a hug. She held him until the rain stopped, and they hurried out to the car, just in case it was only a lull. Horatio had anticipated them, and he held the car door open.

“I was supposed to do that,” Neal informed him, and the driver looked to Belle with an amused lift of his eyebrows.

She was a good bit tired, herself, but Neal had fallen asleep before they were a mile down the road. He snugged himself under Belle’s arm and fell victim to the warmth and safety he found there, not knowing another moment of the ride back.

Belle woke him enough to get his arms around her neck so that she could carry him inside. Mrs. Potts met her as they stepped through the doorway, bustling down the stairs in her rag curls and lavender dressing gown.

“Let me get him ready for bed,” Mrs. Potts said, holding her arms open for Neal. “It’ll be early that you have to get up in the morning.”

Belle surrendered him, but she made a caveat to it. “I’ll tuck him in,” she said.

She followed them up, stopping at her own room while Mrs. Potts and Neal went just a little ways farther down the hall. She hurried, exchanging the nice things she’d worn to the theatre for her nightdress and dressing gown, and went to tuck Neal in. She could take her hair down before she got into bed, herself.

One of the maids had set the toys back in order again, clearing the floor. Belle switched places with Mrs. Potts, sitting next to a very drowsy little boy who appeared to be fighting to stay awake.

“What do you think Papa is doing?” he asked, his voice soft with sleepiness.

“Well, I do hope that he's asleep,” Belle said, pulling Neal's blanket up as he made himself comfortable. 

He moved his hand near his face, at the ready on his pillow. “We'll see him tomorrow?”

“We'll see him tomorrow, bright and early,” she promised.

She picked up the book they’d been working on from the bedside table, turning to the place marked with a piece of paraffin paper that had once held a bit of toffee. They’d been nearly finished with this part the night before, and it was ideal for the very short amount of time she expected him to be aware of her reading at all.

He looked up at her, brown eyes narrowed by heavy eyelids. She had a strange feeling, a tug inside her, as if he were _hers._ It was a feeling that she had to fight, because he _wasn’t._ Telling her heart that didn’t do a great deal of good, though. Belle tried not to imagine what it would be like if they exited her life, now, Rummond and Neal. She wanted them to be hers so badly. It didn’t bear thinking about how she would feel if all the hopes she’d already built on that had the rug yanked from beneath them.

Belle finished to the end of the chapter, though she could tell the moment that Neal had gone sound asleep. It only meant that they could go back over this part tomorrow night. “ _‘But it was good to think he had this to come back to, this place which was all his own, these things which were so glad to see him again and could always be counted upon for the same simple welcome_.’”


	72. Unequipped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts - _standbyyourmantis/lizandletdie's timely prompt: “Rum already had his angsty masturbation. Maybe Belle needs to take the edge off when she's home some time. Maybe even a happy fantasy about married life. :P”_
> 
> And _rowofstars said: “I thought of a fluffy prompt while driving my in-laws home from the airport. Rum has another dream but instead of it being any kind of naughty dream about Belle it's like a "vision of the future" dream where he's watching her in the garden with Neal and she looks over at him and gives him this big, wide smile. And maybe the next time they're in the storage room together he might hint he had a good dream for once in this place and he says it was about her which makes her smile just like in his dream.”_

He opened his eyes to morning sunlight streaming in, and he knew it immediately for a dream. It was too warm, too safe and comfortable to be anything else.

Half the night, he’d resisted falling asleep again. He had managed to drop off just after lights out, only to have nightmares of blood and muck and aeroplanes billowing black smoke. He never was aware when a nightmare had hold of him. It was too easy to believe that he was still back there, he supposed. This place golden with light and contentment, less so.

Rummond could feel that he wasn’t alone. He turned his head on his pillow, away from the window and toward the room, to find Belle sleeping next to him and Neal snuggled down between them. He felt as though his heart could burst. Everything was _right._

He lifted a hand to touch her, to stroke her cheek. Before he could make contact, the light in the room grew until he could see neither of them. For a moment, he was lost. The brightness made him close his eyes, and everything fell away. When he could see again, they were out in the sunlight itself. 

They sat outside, at a table filled with sandwiches and tea cakes, Belle across from him and his son at his left. Neal didn’t so much eat as nibble, running back and forth between his seat and something off in the flowers at the edge of the lawn. The space held an odd familiarity. It took him a while to recognize the arrangement of bushes and flowers and trees. They all looked so different rendered in a child’s crayon.

He reached across the small garden table, turning his palm up to ask for Belle’s hand. When she met him near the middle and curled her fingers in to hold onto his, it was the first time he’d managed to touch her in a dream. 

She beamed over at him, and he had to strain to hear her when she spoke. “I don’t think we’ve anything to worry about. They’ll get along.”

Rummond was just about to ask what she meant when he woke to the early bustling of the ward. 

He’d slept surprisingly late. Belle was at the end of her morning rounds, coming back around past Reyes as Rummond sat up. He was one of the last to rouse, and he’d have to wait for the privy, but he felt _good,_ for once.

She perched herself on the edge of his bunk, smiling as he rubbed at the inner corners of his eyes. “You looked as if you were sleeping well.”

“Mm, on the second go,” he said, combing his hair back from his face. He gave her a sleepy smile that made her toes curl a little in her shoes.

Rummond rested his hand where her leg touched his, thoughts flickering back to his dream at the way she curled their fingers together. He ran his thumb across the soft ridge of her knuckles. “I slept through your ‘good morning.’”

“Good morning,” she said with a grin, shifting her leg enough that their hands slid down. It was too busy to risk certain staff seeing, but she wanted to hold on just a little longer.

His smile broadened a bit more, and he squeezed her hand where they were hidden. She returned the gesture.

Belle had seen him wake not two hours after she’d settled into her chair with her lantern for the night. As had become her habit, she had gone to sit with him, the two of them talking softly until he went quiet. She’d been relieved to watch as he fell asleep again on his own. He needed the rest. Once she turned the lights on, it had taken shushing Lieutenant Hargreaves twice to keep him that way.

“Breakfast will be out presently,” she told him. She caught the glance he gave to the cup of tea she’d set on his table earlier, cold though it was. “I think you might be able to get your morning things done before it comes, if you go on now.”

She slipped her hand from his, patting the side of his leg through the blankets as she stood. He would put off getting out of bed as long as she sat there, and she had more to do before she could justify sitting with him through part of his meal.

Rummond looked to the side of the ward behind him, finding only Knight and Hargreaves waiting. It took long enough to reach his turn, and his tray sat near the foot of his bunk when he got back. He put his toiletry bag away and made himself comfortable again before pulling the tray to him.

By the time Belle could return, he’d worked his way through both pieces of toast and half the sausage and beans on his plate. The near boiling tea, he saved for last.

He could see the surprise on her face when she found him eating, and it was followed by a bright smile. She sat, telling him about the enormous rabbit in its winter coat that Neal had pursued from the back garden and all the way into the bushes lining the drive of the house while Rummond worked his way through his breakfast. He couldn’t manage to clear his tray - in particular, the eggs were a bit too underdone to appeal to him this morning - but he ate far more than usual.

He shook his head, chuckling silently over his mouthful of food. “He sounds as if he needs a pet of some sort,” he said once he’d finished the bite.

 _“That_ can wait until he’s back with his Papa.”

“He does know that he can’t bring the entire French estate wildlife population along, I hope?”

Belle laughed. If Neal could catch them, she was sure he’d try. As it was, he had been asking what sort of food foxes ate. “We’ll see about that when the time comes.”

The ward door flung open, and Nurse Novak came scurrying in dragging a laundry bag with her. She sent frantic looks around the room. 

“Nurse Lucas?” she asked Graham, who stood nearest. “Nurse Lucas has a shift today, doesn’t she?”

Belle touched Rummond’s arm before she left to see what was wrong, and he nodded his understanding.

“Go and see if Ruby is still down in the kitchen?” she told Graham, and he turned right around to do as she asked. She looked to Astrid, setting a hand at her elbow to take her aside and sit her down. The girl was practically vibrating with nerves. “Can you tell _me_ what’s the matter?”

“I left!” Astrid squeaked, half rising from Belle’s corner chair before she was gestured down again. She gave a small, hysterical burst of a laugh. “I took all that’s mine, and I’ve left!” 

Belle’s eyes widened. “You’ve run away from Ms. Fowler?”

Astrid nodded, pulling the laundry bag closer to her legs. “I hid my things outside last night, and for all she knows, I’ve only gone to work.”

Well, that gave her a few hours to work with, at least. Belle rested a hand on her shoulder and hoped that Ruby came along soon, whatever it was that Nurse Novak needed her for.

It took a few minutes, but Ruby came hurrying in. She took one look at Astrid and beamed, broad and red. “You did it!” she crowed as she went over.

“I did it!” Astrid echoed, hopping to her feet.

Ruby grabbed her up in a hug. “I’ll call Granny and she’ll come around to get you. You didn’t mention either of us to anyone there, did you?”

“No, no,” Astrid said quickly. “Not a word to anyone. I couldn’t risk it.”

Belle looked back and forth between them, following their rapid conversation. The two of them had planned this!

“Sit tight. I’m going to call Granny. She’s waiting by the telephone.” Ruby guided Astrid back to the chair and eased her into it with hands on her arms. She took the bag apparently filled with all of Astrid’s belongings. “Zelda says she’ll hide your things in the kitchen. So I’m going to drop them there, call, and I’ll be right back.”

“Everything’s all right, then?” Belle asked, walking with her friend to the door.

“Just fine. I can handle it from here.” She smiled over at Belle, quite proud of her rescue operation. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything - we only came up with it a couple of days ago. She came in upset, and Gormlaith had been threatening to make her go back to factory work. I offered one of Granny’s guest rooms, and we came up with something of an escape plot.”

“No, I- I understand. Of course secrecy was important.” She waved a hand at Ruby. “Go on and do what you need to do, before Nurse Mills sees anything suspicious.”

Belle went back to Rummond’s bedside, happy for Astrid at last getting away from Ms. Fowler, and proud of Ruby for finding it in her to keep such a complete confidence.

“What was that about?” Rummond asked quietly. He’d finished with his tray and set it aside, now only holding his tea between his hands.

She smiled, sitting a bit nearer. “How do you feel?” she asked. “Better today?”

“Well, I… I couldn’t run a mile, but I believe I’m good for a usual day’s back and forth.” He returned her smile, though his own was more than a bit curious.

Belle leaned a little closer, making certain that her words were between the two of them and no one else. “I’m nearly finished with my morning chores; I’ll be all done well before noon.” She grinned, going on in hopes of clearing up his confused expression. “By all accounts, it’s to be a slow day. If you’re feeling better, then it seems to be a good day all around.”

“It’ll be nice to have a good day,” he said, hoping for a _bit_ more of a hint. He could tell she had some intention that he simply wasn’t catching.

“When you find a chance, you might slip out to the storage room a bit before lunchtime,” Belle told him, not taking the time for further subtlety. “And I’ll meet you there when I see you’ve gone. If you feel like it.”

“I feel like it,” Rummond assured her, grinning as he understood. Close as she was, the new instinct to kiss her pulled at him. He took a hand from his tea cup, settling for moving his fingers down next to hers.

She slipped her hand into his overwarm one. The heat of it paired with the warm look in his eyes gave her stomach a pleasant flip. “I thought we might have a few minutes to ourselves.”

“A bit of time alone sounds lovely,” he agreed.

Belle nudged their hands against his leg. “I’ll go and get my work squared away, then,” she said, though she was loath to move away. Only a couple of hours, and she could touch him without worrying over anyone who might cause trouble for them seeing.

She was aware of checking her watch far more than was usual as she went about her business around the ward, anxious for noon’s approach. It was half past eleven when she looked to Rummond and found his bed empty, his book back on the bedside table. She’d been finished with her tasks, both those routine and the needs developing in her section, and had been dawdling for the most part as she waited.

“Nurse Halloran?” She touched Ariel’s shoulder to get her attention. “I need to step out a few minutes early for lunch. Can you look after the beds?”

“I certainly can,” Nurse Halloran said, tucking a piece of paper into her apron pocket.

Belle caught the flush in Ariel’s cheeks, and she had a feeling she’d caught the other nurse with a love note. She patted Ariel’s shoulder before heading out, unable to blame her, what with her own planned tête-à-tête. As long as she didn’t neglect her work, Nurse Halloran could give her sailor all the lovestruck gazes she liked.

Rummond spread the blanket out in his usual spot and sat carefully to one side of it to wait. Surely Belle had seen by now that he’d done as she suggested. He hadn’t missed the glances she gave him, and they’d been trading smiles all morning. She seemed to anticipate sneaking off for a little while as much as he had.

The door clicked open, and he leaned to look through the shelving. He couldn’t see her face - someone had set a box in the way. He’d have to move that. No one else moved quite like she did, though. 

“Rummond?” she said, reassuring him that it was her. 

He responded with a quiet, “Back here.”

Belle turned the lock and went around the middle shelf to find him leaning to look for her. He offered his hand to help her down to the blanket, and she took it. She sat next to him, right against his side, glad to be _alone_ with him for the first time in what seemed far too long. Pushing her shoes off, she nudged them away from the blanket with her toes and curled her legs up.

Finally settled, she looked up at him, enjoying the way he watched her, and getting to look her fill in return. She leaned her forehead against his shoulder for a moment. 

“You asked what was happening when Nurse Novak came in?” she said, remembering that she hadn’t answered. “I told you once about where she lives.”

“That Fowler’s orphanage?” he recalled.

Belle told him what she’d learned from her few minutes with Astrid and Ruby, and about the plot they’d cooked up between them to secret her away.

“Good. I’m glad she’s getting herself away from the woman,” Rummond said once she’d exhausted her new knowledge of the situation.

“You’re happy for her?” She tilted her head curiously. “You don’t know her. She’s hardly been on the ward since you’ve been here.”

“Perhaps not. But I know enough of hating and fearing where you have to live.” 

Belle rested a hand on his thigh and raised up to brush a kiss over his cheek. She stayed close as he turned his face toward her a bit more.

“What was that for?” he asked, the words almost under his breath.

Rather than give him an answer, she smiled, wrapping an arm around his shoulder to lean and kiss him again. Moving her hand from his leg, she lifted it to curl around the back of his neck, hoping to encourage him to put his hands on her in return. Eyes closed, she didn’t feel Rummond move until his fingertips stroked hesitantly along the line of her jaw. It took another moment for him to turn his hand to cradle there.

He moved his free hand to the soft place below her ribcage, and she found herself surging forward a little, only just keeping herself out of his lap. Her teeth bumped his, and she pinched his lip in surprise. When she tried to pull back to apologize, he followed, catching her lower lip and giving it a gentle graze with his own teeth. 

His kisses left her feeling dazed and lightheaded, and _oh,_ she’d never before felt so drunk on being so close to someone. 

The depth of her feelings for him kept sneaking up on her. It had taken her ages to figure out that what she felt wasn’t simply fond affection, wasn’t simply love, but being _in love_ with him. As if it hadn’t been enough to finally understand that much, she _continued_ to be struck with love for him over and over. That wasn’t something she’d ever expected, but it was more than welcome.

His hand flexed, tightening against her body, his thumb pressing below her ribs in a way that had her wanting to crawl into his lap with purpose. It occurred to her how different his hands were from Donat’s. She doubted that Donat had ever done a day of honest work in his life, but his hands were hard. Insistent and rough. Rummond’s though, despite his decades of dedication to the military, were careful, caring, gentle. He’d never demanded anything of her - he would barely ask.

She leaned into him and he gave under her urging, moving his hand away from her body to feel his way as he lay back on the blanket, so that she could lie next to him. Belle bent her knee, resting it over his nearer leg to bring herself closer.

Rummond swallowed a desperate sound as he felt it well up in his throat. Her arms were locked around his neck the way they lay, holding him where he was, keeping him kissing her. He shifted, doing his best not to squirm under the small weight of her leg. Having her so close, feeling her warmth pressed to his side, the energy that she kissed him with - he’d become hard, and he tried to tilt his hips so that he didn’t rub against her.

Belle nipped carefully at his lip, this time intentionally, and his hand fluttered back to her to slide ever so slowly up her leg, over top of her skirt. She could feel his fingers skimming higher along the back of her thigh. A sensation of heavy, frazzled heat built in her belly and at the small of her back - a need she’d never felt so strongly. 

She _wanted_ him. She felt as if she were burning up with it, and she didn’t want to ask him to stop. But she hadn’t been expecting so much today. There were things she needed to do, and she didn’t have any of the preparations for it, but God help her, she was tempted. As badly as she wanted to continue, she couldn’t risk it. It was that thought that sobered her enough, though it took every ounce of her self-control to take her arms from around him.

With a hand in the middle of his chest, she pushed gently away. 

“Wait,” she said, breaking their kiss. She sat up. “Rummond, we can’t.”

He tried to follow her lips out of bare need, but he pulled back as soon as her words registered, sitting up with her. 

“No,” he agreed, shaking his head as he stammered, “No, of course, you- I didn’t mean- I- I’m sorry, I-”

Belle leaned to kiss him again, to quiet him. He tried to back away further, and she grabbed hold of the front of his robe. “Not today,” she explained, deliciously short of breath. “I have something for it. Something I need to see to before we can. But I want to.”

He regarded her with a bit of shock evident in his face. “You _want_ to?”

“Oh, yes,” she whispered back to him, smiling as she plucked another kiss from his lips. “Do you?”

Rummond had to concentrate for a moment before he could make his voice box and tongue work together again. He thought he’d do anything she asked to be with her just about now, and that was a new feeling in itself. “I do…”

She reached up, cupping her hand to his cheek, and he leaned into her touch with a sigh. His breath traveled down her uniform sleeve. She felt it on the inside of her forearm, sending electricity along her skin that made it so much more difficult to not simply rush headlong the way they’d been going.

Belle nodded, her smile a longing one as she told him more quietly, “I want to.”

She checked the watch at her lapel, finding that she still had a little longer. She was glad of it, not being ready to leave his arms just yet.

“You need to go back?” Rummond asked, doing his best not to appear crestfallen. She’d spent a great deal of time on him already today. He didn’t have a right to ask for more.

“Not yet. We still have a few minutes.” She shifted closer, unhappy with how far they’d separated in her hurry to stop them. “Lie back again?”

He did, and she followed him, resting her head on his chest. She draped an arm over him, and after a moment, he wrapped his arms around her, linking his fingers together to encircle her. His heart thumped, and she wondered if hers beat as hard. She concentrated on the pound of it beneath her cheek as it slowed.

“I had a dream. A good one,” Rummond murmured into the silence. He’d debated with himself all morning over whether to tell her, not sure how she might feel about the intimacy of it.

“Did you?” she asked, stroking her hand along his side, between his robe and gown.

“Mm. Haven’t had many of those, the last couple of years.”

“What was it about? Tell me?”

“You, me, Neal…” He considered just how much to tell. “All of us, together. We were in the garden he brings drawings of.”

Belle slid her hand to his back, wrapping her arm around his waist. “It sounds wonderful.” She raised her head, leaning up enough that she could look at his face. “I’d like to have one of those.”

Rummond smiled at her easy acceptance of what he’d worried would seem too strange for her. “I’ll do my best to send you one, then.”

“See that you do,” she said with a nod, stretching to kiss him once more.

She moved to sit, and he let his arms fall away from her. He watched as she smoothed the flyaways of her hair. Everything in him wanted to hold on.

“We should go back,” she said. “Lunch will have been brought out by now. And I’d be surprised if no one has missed us both.”

Belle asked him to go back first, and she went down to the laundry to fetch a blanket as an excuse, just in case anyone _had_ suspected anything. When she returned to the ward, she left it on Rummond’s footlocker. Cold as nights had become, he’d have use of it sooner than later.

He smiled a bit bashfully at her as he pulled apart the piece of bread from his lunch tray. If anyone watched too closely, she thought, they might be able to infer what had almost gone on not many minutes ago simply by the way she and Rummond looked at one another.

“You can take your break, if you like,” she told Ariel, finding her changing Corporal Reyes’ pillow case while gazing across the aisle at Commander Strand. She suggested more quietly, “You might even sit with him to have lunch.”

Nurse Halloran darted a look at her, quickly turning pink. “Oh, but I’m not- we aren’t-”

“And yet you can’t keep your eyes off one another.” Belle smiled, stepping away while Ariel attempted a few more fragmented denials. 

She went about her day in alternating moments of feeling lighter than air and having the urge to return to the storage room. It wouldn’t have taken much farther at all for them to have gotten completely carried away, and she very much liked the feeling of knowing that. But she would need to plan ahead of time, now, and she was a little annoyed with herself for not doing so before. Belle decided that she _would_ be ready for the next time such an opportunity presented itself.

Need still hummed along every inch of her skin, and it didn’t dissipate as easily as she’d assumed it would. Being still proved a challenge. When she stopped to speak to someone, she found herself reaching for something from her pocket to play with, and her foot twitched restlessly when she sat. If nothing else, it gave Rummond a bit of amusement when she couldn’t keep still as she stayed with him during dinner.

The nervous energy that their stolen half-hour had left her with made her a bit daring toward the end of the day. Between shifts, with herself and Ruby the only nurses on the ward, she risked a kiss brushed against his cheek before she went to clock out. His smile and the expression that took over his face in response were more than worth it.

Neal met her at the front door with a hug at the ready when she arrived home, still lively and talkative after his day at school, and they were a pair. Her father spent the whole of dinner casting bewildered looks between the two of them as they chattered on about the day, dessert, and a good bit of whatever they could lay their minds to. 

She was glad of Neal’s habit of drawing in the sitting room after dinner. It meant that she could watch him and admire his little pieces of art when he brought them to show her, and she could spend the last bit of the evening without having to worry about concentrating on anything of her own. The last two days were falling in on her as it grew later, her Wednesday night shift the previous day leaving her worn through. 

Not long before his bedtime, Neal set his drawing things aside and climbed up onto the sofa next to her, wiggling his way under her arm. After a few minutes, the mantle clock chimed, and Neal looked up at her.

“Tuck me in?” he asked, as if it were still a question that she would.

She saw to his pajamas and the story that had become a necessity, made certain that he had Philippe snuggled safely close, and tucked the covers around him before retiring to her own room. 

Belle sat down on the side of her bed, exhausted. She considered simply going to bed and sleeping off her odd mood, but that wasn’t what she truly wanted. What with the way she felt, she wasn’t certain that she could _get_ to sleep. What she _wanted_ was back at the hospital, and again, she’d be damned if she wasn’t ready from then on. Every time she thought of it, she had a moment of annoyance with her lack of preparedness all over again.

There was something she might do to drive out the frustrated heat that had settled in her. She thought for only a second of putting herself to bed for it - tucked in or not, she wouldn’t risk Neal walking in. He’d acquired a habit of coming to her when he had a difficult night, and she couldn’t bear to lock her bedroom door against him. The washroom door, however… 

She pushed up from the bed and went in to run a bath. It wasn’t often that she indulged in a long soak, but she turned the water on nice and hot, pouring in a bit of rose water from the pretty glass bottle that sat next to her sink before she undressed. She left her hair, in no need of washing, pinned up.

The bathtub was half full by the time Belle stepped in. She held the sides and sank slowly into hot water up to her neck, leaning against the incline at the back of the tub. The steaming water took away the cold of the outdoors and the tense soreness in her muscles that night shifts always left behind.

She rested her head on the tub’s back edge. It was easy to let her imagination go, now that she was alone and relaxed. She entertained the thought of crawling into bed with Rummond already there every night, his arms - _all_ of him - waiting for her. She could so easily imagine slipping her hands into the warmth of his pajamas, and his hands sliding beneath her nightdress. 

Belle sighed at a strong pang of desire, needing so badly to feel his skin on hers, wanting to feel his weight atop her. She imagined him in the bath with her, nevermind that the old iron and porcelain tub would likely be a bit small even for the two of them. It was her fantasy. She could have him in a bath with her if she liked.

She ran her hand down the outside of her right thigh, where he’d touched her over her dress, and she wished he’d gone ahead and moved his hand beneath it. The thought of his hands on her bare skin sent a throb between her legs. She moaned softly, her face flushing as she heard her own sound. Her hand slid across the top of her thigh, and covered herself with her palm, feeling another throb.

She stroked her fingertips through her folds, up to the top of her cleft. Far too sensitive after being keyed up as she’d been all day, the direct graze made her leg jump with overstimulation of the little bundle of nerves. Belle grinned to herself, closing her eyes. She imagined what it might be like to have Rummond with her, to take him inside her, gentle as he was. With an indirect pattern of half circles to one side, she massaged first slowly, moving her fingertip more quickly with what she thought his movements might be like.

Her breathing quickened, and she felt it approaching - that lovely tension coiling tighter deep inside, where she could feel it all over at once. She moved her fingertip a bit faster, pressing a bit more firmly in need of bringing on the precipice that grew closer and closer, and seemed as if she might only ever hover without the swell of it breaking. 

It washed over her, _finally,_ and she pressed her free hand over her mouth, groaning against it as the waves poured through her. Her body tried to curl in on itself beneath the water, and she let it, reveling in the ecstatic shudders passing through her stomach and abdomen, her legs pressing together.

Belle pulled herself from the bath on pleasure-weak legs, sitting on the edge to dry and pat herself with a bit of dusting powder. She pulled her nightdress on and tugged the chain connected to the bath plug, letting the water out before she left the washroom.

She sat in the middle of her bed to unpin her hair before slipping between her sheets, at which point she discovered that Mrs. Potts had been in and out. Her bedwarmer had been tucked into the foot of her bed. Belle was glad she’d kept as quiet as she did, a little embarrassed on principle. Not that it stopped her from thinking of Rummond’s eyes and mouth and hands as she drifted off to sleep.


	73. The Game Taking the Course

_“Belle!”_ Ruby yelled from the hospital’s top step as the car pulled up to drop her off.

She felt an instant of fear before taking in her friend’s joyful expression. Having one’s name called so urgently _here_ was rarely a good thing, but Ruby appeared well beyond happy over something.

Belle wished Horatio a good day and headed up the steps. “You bellowed?” she teased as she approached Ruby’s outstretched hands, pulled quickly into the foyer with her.

Ruby grabbed hold of Belle’s arms, shaking her a bit in excitement. “Victor proposed!”

It had taken a little longer than Belle predicted, but she was unsurprised that he’d finally gotten around to asking. Dr. Whale surely knew how good he had it, to have Ruby.

Belle opened her arms to hug her friend. “Congratulations! Didn’t I tell you that he would?”

“And about damn time,” Ruby said more quietly, grinning as she pulled back to show Belle the ring he’d put on her finger the night before.

Belle took her hand, giving the piece of jewelry the expected appraising look. It _was_ lovely - modern and crisply-made, with a delicate starburst cast into the metal. Small diamond chips nestled into the angles, and a larger stone was set at the center. It fit Ruby all over.

“It’s beautiful. He made the perfect choice. On both counts,” Belle told her. She looked up to see Ruby beaming down at the silver confection of a ring, and she shook her head. Nurse Lucas wouldn’t be fit for much work today, she expected.

“He did, didn’t he?” Ruby tilted her hand in Belle’s, admiring the glint as her diamonds caught the electric light overhead.

Belle gave her friend’s hand back so that she could unbutton her coat. “What did your grandmother say?” she asked.

“Oh,” Ruby began, eyes widening as she sobered. “I haven’t told her. Not yet.”

“Why not? She’ll be so happy for you!”

“She’s only ever met Victor here at the hospital. She doesn’t even know-”

Belle laughed. “She knows. Three years, sneaking or not, she knows.”

“She’ll be upset…” Ruby looked from Belle to her ring with a little frown.

“Once she knows how you love Dr. Whale and how head over heels he is for you, she’ll be thrilled for you, Ruby. Just find a good time to tell her.”

Belle put her purse in the front desk drawer and took her coat along with her to leave on the rack near the time clock along with the others. Someone must have gotten the furnace turned higher earlier this morning. It was nice and warm even in the corridors. She hoped perhaps the hospital would stay that way. Rummond’s day would be nicer from the beginning, she thought, if the ward had the chill taken from it.

Ruby went along to the kitchen and waited in the doorway while Belle made a cup of tea, the better to stay out of a very busy Zelda’s way. They then walked toward the east wing together, and Belle listened as her friend recounted Dr. Whale’s proposal and everything that led up to it. What followed the proposal, Belle assured her was unnecessary to detail quite so exquisitely.

There was a shrill squeal from the ward as they neared the doors, and Belle gave Ruby a look of alarm.

Ruby cringed. “Oh. By the by? We’ve got mice.”

“Mice? But they patched up all of the mouseholes.”

“The mice made more, apparently. They’re all over the hospital.”

The cold drove some local nests of woodmice inside. It happened every year, but that made it no less an annoyance. The groundskeeper had gone around during the previous winter, scouring every inch of the hospital for nibbled mouseholes, and patched the lot of them. Obviously cold mice were industrious, though.

Belle sighed, pushing the door open ahead of them. “Delightful.”

It was Nurse Halloran who’d screamed, they found. When Belle went in, Ariel stood on the foot of Commander Strand’s bed, hands clasped to her apron and face nearly as white as the fabric of it.

“One ran across my foot!” she gasped, looking very startled, indeed.

Belle went first to leave Rummond his cup of tea. He had a manicure set lying open on his lap, taking care of his nails.

“Thank you. And good morning,” he said, smiling up at her.

She returned his smile and his, “Good morning,” before going over to tend to Nurse Halloran.

“Please, come down.” Belle reached up for her hand, taking it to help the younger nurse back to the floor. “I’m sure they’re just as frightened of you.”

Ariel gave her a doubtful look. “Do you think so?

“They wouldn’t be running and hiding, otherwise, hm?” Belle comforted.

“I suppose,” Ariel said, though she didn’t appear too convinced.

The entire ward had been alerted of Nurse Halloran’s run-in with one of their woodmice, and Belle saw a few chuckles going around. At least the troublesome creatures might lend a bit of mirth before the infestation was cleared up again. She sent Ariel off to inform the groundskeeper of the situation, just in case a report of it had been neglected. The other nurse was all too happy to be given an off-ward task.

Belle turned back to Rummond, finding amusement on his face. His smile further broadened as she went over. He was still paring his nails, and she waited until he paused before she sat.

The manicure set he worked from was worn, she saw. More of the little white Bakelite handles were cracked than not. The file had a bit of rust near the handle end, and the way he used the snips, they seemed a bit dull. The buff appeared to be missing from his small kit, as well. 

“The mice aren’t bothering you?” she asked, watching as he placed a sliver of fingernail in a piece of creased paper to keep it off the blanket.

“Oh, not particularly,” he said. He picked up the file to smooth the ridges that the snips left on his nails. “As long as they aren’t nibbling their way into my things, I can live and let live.”

“I think we’ll be rid of them before they cause too much trouble.”

“You might let Nurse Halloran know, before she gives up the floor to begin walking on the bunks.”

Belle pressed her lips together over her grin. The one he gave her was far more brazen. Rummond stopped for a moment, having a sip of his tea - and without a single nudge toward doing so.

She had minutes before the day shift took over, and she wanted nothing more than to spend them with him. There was something she wished to ask, as well, though try as she might she had trouble getting it to the tip of her tongue.

“Have you always been so cold-natured?” Belle asked. It wasn’t _quite_ what she intended to say. She plucked at his covers, fingertips skimming across the edge of each where he’d folded the tops over.

Rummond gave her a questioning look. “Not terribly.”

“These are enough, then?”

“Oh, these are plenty. They’re good for more than the cold, though.”

She looked down at the blankets - four of them layered on the bed, now. “How do you mean?”

He shrugged a shoulder, smiling at her over his cup. “They’re comforting, I suppose.”

“The warmth?” Belle straightened the narrow hems where she’d played with them. She knew of children keeping special blankets, but those were particular things, and it didn’t seem to be what he meant.

“The warmth…” Rummond nodded, considering. He set aside his tea again to pick up the pair of nail snips, continuing more quietly. “The warmth is nice, but I don’t mean that so much as the weight.”

“What does the weight of them do?”

His smile drifted away, his brow creasing in thought. She wasn’t sure why, but his voice was just a bit smaller when he tried to explain it to her.

“It’s comforting, when I feel as if I’m apt to fly apart. They lend safety somehow.” The corner of his mouth quirked upward in a little gesture of self-deprecation, and he glanced up at her. “I know it’s an illusion.”

“If they make you feel comforted and safe, then the illusion part doesn’t matter,” she told him, reaching over to give the cuff of his gown a gentle tug before he got started on the other hand.

Her wisp of a touch, her finger just stroking along the side of his wrist, drew a smile back to his face.

Nurse Halloran returned to the ward, casting a look around at the floor as she came in. “I told him,” she relayed, stopping by to speak with Belle. “He says it was the fourth report he’s had, and he’ll see to it as soon as possible. It didn’t sound like he was in any great hurry.”

“All right. Thank you,” Belle said, and Ariel went back about her chores.

Rummond waited until Nurse Halloran had gone before he asked, “Report?”

“The mice.”

“Ah.”

She smoothed a crease from her apron, watching as he finished paring the nails of his left hand. They were always neat and taken care of. She’d noticed more than once how nice his hands were, unusual as it was for a man of his station. She had never caught him at the little ritual of keeping them in that condition, though.

Belle observed his careful work with the file. Her imagination provided her with more thoughts of his hands on her - how warm they would be next to her skin, reminding her of the way his hand had tightened against her below her ribs in such a way that she could almost _feel_ it again. They were thoughts that were wholly inappropriate, given her current and extreme lack of privacy, and she felt her cheeks flush at the same time a flutter of need developed low in her belly.

She closed her eyes and pulled in a deep breath. As much as she’d begun to enjoy that feeling of desire and anticipation, now was _not_ the time. When she opened her eyes again, she found Rummond watching her.

“Is something the matter?” he asked.

“No, nothing wrong.” Belle quickly shook her head. If anything, she felt more right than she had in a very long time. It was realizing this that gave her a surge of boldness enough to ask what she’d meant to as soon as she saw him this morning.

“Spend Christmas with me.” Her invitation emerged as something more an order. She winced inwardly, but went along with it.

“Christmas?” Rummond echoed, his eyes blinking wider, voice perhaps higher than he’d intended.

“You should be with Neal on Christmas morning,” she went on, nodding. “And there’s no reason you couldn’t leave the hospital for a day. Or so.”

“You- you want me to spend Christmas with you?”

“We’ve plenty of guest rooms-”

“Overnight?”

“And you should meet Mrs. Potts. Since she also looks after Neal. You should meet my father, as well. Neal talks about you so much, _they_ should meet _you.”_

“Your father…” Rummond breathed. She wanted him to meet her father. What on God’s green earth would Belle’s father think of someone like him? “Neal talks about me to them?”

Belle smiled. “Of course he does. He talks about you to anyone who sits still long enough.”

“You want me to spend Christmas with your family?”

“Yes.”

“Belle, are you certain?”

“Quite certain, yes.”

“Your father won’t mind it - a stranger intruding upon your family?”

“You would be my guest. We’ve had guests over Christmas before. You aren’t a stranger, and you most certainly wouldn’t be intruding.”

He hesitated. She was inviting him to spend the entirety of Christmas in her home. With Neal, with her, with her _family._ It was no small thing. He feared she was being pushed into it by the situation between them.

“You’re _certain?”_ he asked once more.

Becoming aware that his reaction had more to do with herself than him, Belle sighed. “I want you there,” she told him forthright. “I’m not working over Christmas Eve or Christmas, and I want to spend the day with you. With you, and with Neal, and you both deserve a lovely holiday together. I’m long past certain, Rummond.”

The corner of his mouth tugged higher with a shy smile, and he nodded. He leaned to whisper to her, “There is no place I want more to be than with you and Neal on Christmas, love.”

Belle ducked her head a little. Her smile was bright when she looked back up at him, her cheeks pink with the first endearment he’d ever managed to give her.

Rummond wanted so badly in that moment to kiss her - to reach out and draw her to him, to tuck her close against him and kiss her until he ran out of breath. He rued that he couldn’t. 

Moving his hand slowly down, he stroked the back of his fingers over her knee where it rested on the blanket near his thigh. She responded by settling her own hand on his leg, stretched out next to her, curling it around his calf. They sat for a while in a comfortable bit of quiet that the rest of the ward, still in a mild fizz over their little invaders, took no part in.

When she was no longer willing to resist, Belle took his hand in hers, giving it a look of playful inspection before she ran the pad of her thumb across his fingernails.

“How did I do?” he asked softly. “Smooth enough?”

Belle lifted it, giving him a warm look through her eyelashes as she grazed the edges of his nails along her bottom lip, the way she checked her own for burrs. He watched, awestruck, and moved his thumb to stroke along her cupid’s bow. 

“I believe you’ve done an excellent job,” she judged.

The door opened and Belle’s posture stiffened. She let go of him, quickly dropping her hands to her lap. Rummond followed where she looked; Dr. Whale stepped onto the ward, frowning down at the chart open in his hands. The doctor looked up and headed rather obviously in their direction.

Belle stood, taking a step back. “Dr. Whale,” she greeted. “I was only-”

“I thought I’d cut it to the quick,” Rummond supplied, trading a glance with her as he put his manicure tools away and pressed the case’s clasp shut.

The doctor didn’t seem to have taken notice how close in proximity his nurse and patient had been, however. “Good morning,” he said and, waiting no time for a response, went immediately on. “I would like to clarify some things, Captain Gold, if you’ve the time?”

Rummond gave him a wry look, eyebrows raised - both unseen as the doctor’s attention returned to the chart. “I have nothing but time.”

“The cold bath treatment that you received last week. I’ve some notes in your chart here that difficulties presented with that?”

“Difficulties, indeed,” Belle said.

Rummond looked on as she turned suddenly cool and professional in the administrator’s presence, right down to the hands clasped at the front of her apron.

Dr. Whale turned his attention to her. “Yes, yes, that’s right, these are your notes, are they not?”

“Yes, sir. I always sign my notes. My signature should be there.” She knew that it was. She remembered every word she’d written, and how civil she’d had to force those notes to remain.

“So it is. I have a bit of conflict in reports.” He turned a number of pages, pulling a pair of stapled papers from between them, and offered them to her. “Last evening, Nurse Mills filed a report on Captain Gold’s treatment, and she doesn’t mention any of the detrimental after-effects that you’ve remarked upon.”

Belle took the report. “Give me a moment?” she asked, beginning to read something that she determined to be a load of tripe right away.

The head nurse had detailed a treatment that hadn’t happened - at least not in the way she’d reported it. According to Nurse Mills, Rummond had been in a cold bath of precisely fifty degrees Fahrenheit for precisely two hours, fully supervised. After which he had been returned to the ward alert and with an only slightly lowered core temperature.

Belle knew better. She’d listened to Rummond’s details of the cold bath, she had spoken with witnesses about the timing of events, and she knew who she believed. The head nurse had made up a great portion of her report out of whole cloth.

She handed the papers back to Dr. Whale. “I see the discrepancies,” she told him simply.

The doctor placed Nurse Mills’ report back into the chart. “You determined that Captain Gold was hypothermic upon his return to the ward, though.”

“Yes, I did. It was a mild case, but not nearly so mild that it could have been missed or misjudged by the head nurse or the two orderlies who participated in the treatment.”

“Why did no one come to me about it?” Dr. Whale asked, his frown deepening.

“As I said, it was a mild case. Though, the Captain’s previous condition did make it a bit precarious.” She looked to Rummond, finding him carefully watching the doctor. “We handled it here on the ward, and he came through just fine. He’d recovered almost fully by the very next morning.”

Belle didn’t tell him that she couldn’t quite trust him to exercise impartiality where his head nurse was concerned. He’d defended and downright turned a blind eye to Nurse Mills too many times for her to find him completely trustworthy.

“I see,” Dr. Whale said, looking at the chart again. “And you have others who can verify your version of events?”

She physically bit the side of her tongue in resentment, wondering if he had or would ask Nurse Mills for witnesses to verify _her_ story. Of course, the head nurse had automatic witnesses in Nurse Nolan and her pet orderlies.

“I have at least two other nurses, an orderly, and Lieutenant Hargreaves, all of whom can verify Captain Gold’s condition when he was brought back to the ward, as well as the care he required afterward.” Belle stared at the doctor, waiting until he raised his head and looked her in the eye. He did, and for only a second before shifting his gaze to Rummond.

Dr. Whale clapped the chart shut and handed it to Belle, stepping past her. “Well, now that I’ve the fuller picture, I would like to examine you for myself,” he said to Rummond, sitting awkwardly on the bedside.

Rummond set his manicure tools aside, then gave the doctor a ‘go ahead’ gesture of his hands. He didn’t know what the man could be looking for at this point. It was all days past, now.

He’d been cold before - so cold he’d had ice crusted over the shearling of his flight jacket when he landed - but never as cold as when he came out of that tub. Never so damned cold he’d been frightened of what it meant. He had thought he would never stop shivering, and felt as if he’d never be warm again. If it hadn’t been for Belle… 

When he’d wakened, she had been there to ply him with all the tea and broth that he could get down, apparently intent that no part of him would remain unwarmed. Humbert had later come in to fuss a bit, himself, and had a good seethe over what had happened, while he was at it.

Dr. Whale pulled down Rummond’s lower eyelids, looking at his eyes. Taking the stethoscope from its drape around his neck, he directed, “Unbutton your gown.”

Rummond glanced up at Belle as he did as the doctor said, and she gave him a reassuring smile. The bell of the stethoscope was freezing when Dr. Whale pressed it firmly to his chest, making him grimace. The doctor moved it here and there before replacing it at his neck.

Belle watched as Dr. Whale took one of Rummond’s hands and then the other, pressing his fingertips while looking at the pads of them. He was checking the blood flow - she’d done the same a couple of times while Rummond had been warming up. The doctor stood and pulled the blankets back, doing the same to his patient’s toes. It was all quite dispassionate in procedure.

Once finished, Dr. Whale righted the covers and stood back, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s all within the average,” he declared, the frown still graven on his face. He looked to Belle. “Though he does seem rather underweight.”

“Captain Gold has difficulty eating when his injury flares up,” she acknowledged. “But he’s eating quite well now. His weight is coming up at a healthy pace. He’s stronger than he has been in a while, as a matter of fact.”

“Hm.” The doctor held a hand out for the chart, and she returned it. He opened it once again and took a pen from his inner jacket pocket, making a few notes of his own. “Well. My apologies for interrupting your day, Captain. And for delaying your work, Nurse French. Carry on,” he said, and he turned to make his way off the ward.

She waited for the door to close behind Dr. Whale before she removed the ramrod from her spine and looked back to Rummond. He was giving her an expression of curious surprise similar to her own.

“The good doctor doesn’t seem particularly happy with his findings,” Rummond observed.

Belle grinned at him. “I don’t believe that irritation was directed toward you at all.”


	74. Into Temptation

He hadn’t been so foolish as to expect that Nurse Mills would be ousted right away. One couldn’t make a case for firing a head nurse on a single piece of evidence, he supposed. Still, he couldn’t help being a bit disappointed to have heard nothing about her so much as being called to the carpet. Belle would have told him, if she knew, but the only change he’d seen was slightly less cheer to the head nurse’s malice. It was something.

Rummond’s week had been a _good_ one. All things considered. Sleeplessness had stuck with him, and when he did manage sleep, there were nightmares. But he had been able to eat. When Belle brought Neal around on Sunday, he’d eaten enough of the hot broth and the chicken and cress ribbon sandwiches they’d brought along to fill himself, and by some miracle didn’t feel ill over it. All week, he’d kept his meals down. He had been forced to retreat to the storage room twice - once as Quinn did his damnedest at the other end of the ward to provoke Commander Prinsen, and again when Lieutenant Hargreaves had a somewhat significant snap after returning from Dr. Hopper’s office. As far as hallucinations, however, he’d had not a one.

They’d experienced a second failed encounter, he and Belle, on the latter visit to his spot in the storage room. She’d defused the Lieutenant’s upset with some talk and a cup of slightly strengthened quinine water, and once he’d taken to his bunk, she went to check on Rummond. The room had been quiet and warm, and she’d kissed his cheek and taken his hand, dropped a kiss on his lips, and things had attempted to carry away from there. They hadn’t gotten nearly so far as the previous time, when Belle had needed to stop them, unready. This time he’d found himself the one in an unprepared situation. Of sorts. He could only figure that the fraught ward and his insides in an uproar, it all lent to making him… unhelpful. Willing as his heart was, his body was apparently reluctant. He was only glad to have realized it early, saving some smidge of humiliation that would have gone along with finding himself limp _and_ in a state of undress.

Belle had assured him that it was all right, they had more than enough time, that they’d’ve had to hurry before the end of lunch, anyway. She’d seemed to be perfectly content to press herself to his side with their arms wound around one another until the end of her break. As for himself, he stayed hidden for a quarter hour more after she left the room, cursing his mind, his age, his ridiculous excuse for a body - everything his tongue could lay blame to in himself.

When he returned to the ward, she was waiting for him. He caught the change in her expression as relief washed worry from her face. His bedclothes had been neatened and the cards he’d left scattered on the blanket were replaced in their box atop his book. He’d discovered her fussy habit of straightening things when she worried. Belle had been so concerned over him in the extra minutes it had taken him to come back? It had surprised the low feeling from him before it could take root too deeply. She’d further fussed over him for the rest of the day.

He kept thinking that she might invite him to slip away together for a while, but in the days since they’d last tried and failed, she hadn’t hinted a thing about it. She was busy, he understood. She couldn’t very well find enough uninterrupted time to sneak off with him in such a way so often.

Rummond, though, he had time to worry. He’d proven himself incapable, as far as she knew. For that matter, perhaps he was, now. He worried that he’d at last found the end of her patience with him. That she was still treating him with kindness was no surety that she still wanted him; Belle wasn’t the type to be cruel. He sat and stewed in his fretting, holding dear the minutes she did find to come by and sit with him.

Belle walked a slow circuit of the ward, performing her first check of the night an hour after lights out. The day had been reasonably calm and the evening even more so. All of her patients were sleeping - or resting, if they couldn’t sleep - and she was glad of it for more than one reason.

As usual, she ended her walk on Rummond’s side of the room. She veered toward his bed with footsteps as quiet as she could make them, meaning to see whether he might be awake. With far too much time to think about it over the last few days, Belle had decided that perhaps the hour she was given for lunch _may_ not be the best time for the two of them to meet for anything that wasn’t more easily interrupted. Emergent situations were much too common to get herself in the middle of something that meant she would have to put her uniform back on before hurrying off.

An ideal solution had presented itself in the form of Nurse Novak. Since the young nurse had found refuge in the Lucas household, a sizeable group of nurses from all over the hospital had arranged amongst themselves to switch shifts with Astrid under the table. The idea was to keep her in her job while also keeping Ms. Fowler from sussing out her schedule. Thus far, they were succeeding.

Ruby had traded one of her Friday night shifts for Astrid’s Thursday day one on the north ward. The only problem was that Nurse Novak had never before worked nights. Easily remedied - Belle volunteered for Astrid to sit in with her for her own mid-week shift before handling an entire night alone.

If Rummond was sleeping, she wouldn’t bother him, she decided. He needed sleep more than she needed one of their little trysts. She’d been thinking of it - of _him_ \- all day, though, and hoping that the stars would align themselves so that they might have the chance. With her lantern turned low, she stepped carefully nearer his bedside. She’d intended to stop and watch for a moment, to see whether he slept, but he moved and made it unnecessary. 

He turned his head toward her a bit, unburying his face from his pillow. Belle set her lantern on the bedside table.

“Can you not sleep?” she asked quietly. “Or are you trying?”

Rummond shook his head, whispering back up to her, “Can’t. It’s another of those nights.”

She rested a hand on his side and leaned down to speak more softly near his ear. “What would you think of having a private little while, the two of us?”

“Now?” he asked when she leaned back again, one of those lopsided smiles developing at the corner of his mouth.

Belle nodded, and she found her own smile turning a bit shy. “If you feel like it.”

Astrid could handle the next hourly check by herself. She had a lantern and she knew the procedure - an hour or so on her own would help her to acclimate. Belle would make sure to return in time for the one after. 

“I’d like to,” Rummond agreed, beginning to push his covers back.

Her heart felt as if it attempted a somersault in her chest. “Give me ten minutes,” she said, holding her hands out in a gesture for him to wait, and she took her lantern from the table. “Ten minutes, and meet me there.”

Barely containing herself enough to walk at a reasonable pace, she went to tell Nurse Novak that she would be off the ward for a while.

Astrid was enjoying this particular night shift for reasons not completely unrelated to the frequent stops she could make by Bombardier Jezek’s bed. Belle could hear them whispering to one another as she approached.

“Nurse Novak?” she said.

The younger nurse jumped to her feet. “I’ve been spending too much time over here! I know- I know I have. I’m not shirking, though! Really, I’m-”

“It’s all right,” Belle told her, exchanging a grin with Jezek. “As long as you keep your ears open and do your walk on the hour, it doesn’t matter where you sit.”

Astrid appeared tempted to sink back onto her spot on the edge of the bed in relief. “Oh. Oh, all right.”

“I only came over to tell you that I need to step out for a little while. You remember everything I explained?” she asked, to be certain.

“I remember.” Astrid nodded. “I can see to checks next hour.”

“Thank you,” Belle said, doing her best not to sound _too_ excited.

She left the ward, going out to the foyer and then to the front desk for her purse, before letting herself into the nurses’ washroom. Her hand shook a little, she noticed as she reached for the rotary switch to get more light. It was nerves - the happy sort. She put her things down and held her hands together for a moment to still them.

Belle took from her purse a small, round, silver box, its lid set around the edge with seed pearls. The container she had kept her diaphragm in since ordering it - the one it arrived in - was too conspicuous. The pretty little pill box she’d placed it in before putting it in her purse days ago had never seen use. It was sufficient size for all she needed to be prepared (and she bloody well _was_ prepared, after the frustration of that first ‘almost’). Ideally, no one would go poking around inside it in the event that it was seen, either.

She tripped the box open by the button at the front and set it on the shelf above the sink. The paper that had come along with the device hadn’t said, but she found it best to rely on her instincts as a nurse; she gave her hands a good wash, held her diaphragm up to the light for a quick inspection, and then rinsed it.

Placing one foot on the lid of the toilet, she pulled her skirt and petticoats back. Worried as she was over getting it right, it was easy. She’d done it before, and practiced countless times before needing it for actual use. She squeezed the small, shallow piece of red rubber narrow and closed her eyes to feel for the positioning as she slid it into place. Reaching over again, she took the preparation from the bottom of the pill box. It was a thing resembling an ovaline pill the size of the end of her little finger. The materials it was made of felt almost silky, and it was meant to melt. She slipped it inside, as well. According to the ‘experts’ in these things, it wasn’t necessary to combine the particular precautions she was using, but doing so made her feel far more comfortable.

Belle washed her hands once more and headed back to the storage room, leaving her purse in the desk again as she went past. Rummond wouldn’t be there yet, she was fairly certain. She hadn’t been gone from the ward for very long. She let herself in, switching the light on and extinguishing her lantern.

What _was_ there, however, was an examination table. Pushed right into the corner where Rummond always spread his blanket.

She gave it a look of disbelief, walking from one end of it to the other before remembering the roof leak. The roof itself had been repaired, but the damage to the north wing exam room ceiling that it had poured into was only just now being patched up. Belle gave an annoyed hum and bumped one of the table’s feet with her shoe.

It was an old-fashioned piece of furniture, made of wood, with a leather pad and elegantly-turned feet. She’d never really had much to do around the exam rooms, but she _would_ have liked to see the hospital with newer basic equipment, at the very least. Perhaps even something made _before_ the Queen died.

She turned, placing her hands on the edge of the table, and hopped up to perch on the side of it. It wasn’t too tall - just about right for a doctor to access a patient from his stool next to it. They could likely work with this, she thought. One way or another.

She’d just checked her watch when the doorknob clicked, and she heard the soft thump of Rummond’s cane as he made his way in.

“Back here,” Belle said, calling to him the way he did when she came in. 

He walked around the center shelves and she smiled, holding a hand out to him. When he took it, she drew him close.

“I see someone’s imposed upon my corner,” he said, eyeing the examination table with a raised eyebrow.

“Repairs in the north wing. I suppose we’ve caught the overflow when they emptied the room.”

“Seems they could have found another place for it.”

“You locked the door?” she asked.

He picked up his cane, laying it on the end of the table. “I did.”

“You’re certain?”

“I turned the latch myself.”

“Good,” Belle said, tugging him closer to her legs.

Before Ruby and Dr. Whale had settled on favoring a particular exam room, their forgetfulness about employing locks was a regular occurrence. Half the hospital staff had walked in on them at one point or another, and _everyone_ now knew about the birthmark in the shape of the Isle of Man on Dr. Whale’s posterior. Belle didn’t want anyone getting an eyeful of any of her nor Rummond’s parts.

She reached up, carding her fingers through his hair on the side that had been resting on his pillow. For a moment, she waited to see whether he would lean in first or she would. When he didn’t, she let go of his hand so that she could rest both of hers on his chest.

“Kiss me?” she asked, hoping to encourage him to initiate.

Rummond rested his hands on the leather pad, on either side of her, his belly pressed against her knees as he leaned to give the kiss she’d requested. They began as soft, short kisses plucked from one another’s lips, smiles and breaths between. Belle’s hands slid up his shoulders and over his neck where it joined them, curling her fingers around the back to hold him where he was. With her next kiss, she opened her mouth, and he found that he needn’t have worried over things not working as they were supposed to this time. He became very aware that she would be able to feel how well it was working before long.

He gave a little lick over the center of her lower lip, and she replied in kind, pushing forward and catching the tip of her tongue behind his front teeth in such a way that it sent a wave of arousal straight through him. His hands came up to span her hips, tight against the softness of her clothes. She pulled back, grinning, and he realized he’d become almost immediately hard - more than enough that she should feel it straining against her where he leaned into her legs.

“Sorry, I-” he breathed, shaking his head.

But Belle only moved her hands a little further, lacing her fingers loosely together under his hair. He felt her open her thumbs to stroke against the sensitive places just behind his jaw, below his ears. The feel of it made the situation beneath his robe and gown just that much worse.

“I’ve wanted this all day,” Belle said, her grin broadening a bit more. “All _week._ Please, don’t apologize.”

Before he could reply, she’d captured another kiss from him, nipping at him on purpose and deepening it. She banished the ward from her thoughts, concentrating on how nice it felt to be here with Rummond, kissing him, working them both up more and more. She made another shallow lick into his mouth to touch the ridge of his palate behind his front teeth again - it had brought such a pleasing result the first time. His response didn’t disappoint. He made a sound, a short groan that he seemed to cut off, and his hands moved to grip tightly at her waist. She wasn’t sure he even realized how he pressed his hips more firmly toward her.

The way he reacted to her had that wonderful, tense feeling of warmth growing in her. Belle couldn’t blame him. She thought she’d have rubbed herself against him, if she were in a position to. She wanted him so badly she could hardly stand it any longer, and she had a feeling that he wouldn’t be the one to ask for more.

When they were forced to part for breath, she decided to ease him toward it. “We should move, shouldn’t we? Surely we can make a place on the floor, anyway, so that your leg-”

“My leg is fine,” he said a little defensively.

“You wouldn’t rather-” She hesitated, searching his face for any sign that he was hiding pain. All she found there was confusion. “It doesn’t hurt?”

He shook his head, tongue darting out to lick his lips, and she pulled them together to steal another kiss. His eyes remained closed for a second after she moved back, a smile returning to tug at his mouth.

“The table _is_ a good height…” she said with a grin once he’d looked at her again, and she pinched her own lip between her teeth.

Rummond leaned to kiss her, sucking gently at her lip until she released it. She ran her hands down from his neck and back to his chest, then to her own lap, where she gathered her skirts to pull them higher.

He felt the motion, but it took him a few moments to catch on what she was doing. He pulled back, his breath short where her kisses had taken it. “Belle?”

He knew. Obviously, he knew. That didn’t change the fact that it was still flooring him a bit, what they were doing.

“Here, help me off with my apron?” she asked.

He slid his hands around past her waist, locating the bow and pulling the tails of it free. She reached up to loosen the straps from her shoulders.

“Up and over my head,” she guided, raising her arms. “Careful of the pocket, it’s still full.”

Rummond did as she said, and he draped the apron over one end of the exam table. He’d never seen her uniform without it. He would have imagined it to be rather plain, but on Belle, the dress was far from it. 

Belle took the opportunity of not having him pressed quite so closely to push off her shoes. They made a pair of reverberating _clack_ s off the tile, giving Rummond a small start.

“I’m sorry!” she said, pulling a bit of a face and realizing instantly what she’d done. She took a handful of the front of his robe, bringing him closer again. “Shoes - I didn’t think.”

He laughed a little - defense against how foolish he felt. “It’s all right.”

She went back to her dress, gathering it above her knees, and opened her legs so that he could stand between them. “Come here?”

Rummond stepped forward, his face heating a little as he felt the warmth radiating from her skin. Petticoats were good for that, he remembered. Good for holding body heat close. He looked down at her stockinged legs, and he couldn’t quite decide where to put his hands.

Her hand came up to cradle his cheek, and she urged him along for another kiss. His hands fell to the folds of fabric on her lap. She made some sound, soft and vibrating enough that he _felt_ it in his mouth, and he had to bite back on a whimper of his own at the sensation of it. 

Far beyond unwelcome, his wife’s - _ex-wife’s_ \- judgement on his behavior in their bedroom and the disgust he’d witnessed more than once on her face came to mind. 

_For God’s sake, Rummond. You sound like an animal._

Even when things had been good in the marriage, she’d wanted him quiet.

The response he’d had for Belle flagged, and he tried to push away from her. She held fast to the front of his robe, though, keeping him from getting away.

“What is it?” Belle asked, recognizing the sudden change.

He frowned, shaking his head as he took her hands, attempting to gently extricate himself from her hold.

“Rum? What’s the matter?”

“You don’t want this. You- you don’t-”

Belle’s frown echoed his, and she held tight despite his shaky prying at her hands. Something had happened. “What made you pull away? Was it- Did I do some-”

“No,” he said, interrupting her before she could blame herself. “No, no, Belle, you don’t- you can’t-”

His surfacing stammer worried her, and his breathing verged on panic. It was no longer the pleasant breathlessness they’d shared.

“What are you thinking about, then? What’s happened?” she kept on.

“Milah, she d- didn’t like- didn’t-” he murmured, at last managing to pull the fabric from her fingers. He staggered backward, colliding with the shelves, and cringed.

“She isn’t here. I am,” Belle said determinedly. She wouldn’t allow that woman to intrude on either of them, if she could help it. “And I like everything you’ve shown me.”

Rummond looked up at her, the pink of her lips deepened by their kisses, her skirts rucked up high over her black stockings, the way she looked _back_ at him. His hands ached to reach out for her.

“Come back? Please?” she asked, and she reached out to _him_ so far that she nearly overbalanced herself from the table.

All he had to do was take her hand. It shouldn’t be so difficult. But in the wake of those memories, the terror of letting her down was overwhelming.

“Rummond, sweetheart?” Belle said, breaking through his thoughts. “Please?”

He met her eyes, finding only kindness there. Pushing past insidious thoughts, he took her hand, and she brought him back the couple of limping steps to her. She caught her other hand behind his neck, holding him there.

“I’ll be a disappointment to you,” he confessed, looking down at the exposed white and blue plaid of her bottommost petticoat. He played nervously with her fingers where she held onto his hand.

“No, you won’t. You could never,” she promised him.

“You don’t know that.” He lifted her hand, kissing the backs of her fingers. “Belle, you don’t want-”

She quieted him, closing the small distance between them and nuzzling her nose against his in an affectionate gesture she’d picked up from him, and brushed their lips together. “You don’t get to tell me what I want. I _know_ what I want. He’s right here.”

Rummond’s heart gave a funny skip at her words. Moving slowly, he caught her mouth for a somewhat chaste kiss, and rested his forehead against hers.

Belle held them there in the still silence for a while, waiting for him to calm. His hands gradually steadied, and she felt his breathing even out, the puffs of air on her skin growing softer.

“I want you,” she whispered to him. “Do you want to keep going? Tell me truthfully, Rummond?”

Without moving away from her, he nodded. “You’ve no idea how much.”

She grinned, nudging her brow against his until he held his head up. “I daresay I do.”

She saw a little color rise to his face, and she pressed a kiss to his flushed cheek. Taking her hand from his, she moved to undo a button above the crossed lapels of his robe, stroking her fingers over the exposed skin once she had it slipped through.

His eyes fell shut and he sighed at the warmth of her touch, but when she went for a second button and then a third, his nerves got the better of him.

“Wait…” he said softly, reluctantly, as if afraid what her reaction would be.

But she seemed to understand. “You don’t want this off?”

Rummond shook his head a little. She lay her hands on his chest again, and he looked down, placing his over them.

“I’ve seen it. I’ve seen _you,”_ she said.

“Not all of it, and not like this. You were a nurse.”

Belle breathed a laugh, and he looked back up at her. She turned her hands beneath his so that she could hold them, pulling them to her own chest to reassure him that she didn’t laugh _at_ him. “I’m still a nurse.”

“It’s different.”

“I’ll tell you a secret,” she said, her voice quiet and teasing. “I wasn’t _that_ much of a nurse that night. At least not so much that I didn’t notice.”

He went a bit tense with the thought that she might have seen how he’d looked at her even then, when he shouldn’t have been. “Notice?”

“Notice _you.”_ She smiled, moving her hands away from his, and slid them down over his ribs. “You don’t have to remove anything you don’t want to. Though, there’s one article that would get in the way.” Her hands went farther down, fingers skimming along the waist of his underwear when she found the line of them. 

“Suppose I can do without those,” he said, smiling through the way his face heated further. His interest began piquing again a bit south of where she touched him.

Without much consultation with him, his hands had begun fiddling with the modest ruffle at her petticoat hem. “Do you- Your dress,” he began, doing his best to keep his train of thought as Belle brought him nearer by the sides of his robe.

She pulled him closer between her legs, her knees tightening around his hips. It was both a comfort and a frustration that she could have him hard so quickly. He had yet to find a slow path to arousal with her.

“It’s a bit cold,” she justified. If he’d be more comfortable not going naked to the skin this time, they could certainly work around it. “I think I may keep my dress on, as well, hm?”

Rummond nodded. She was playing along with his ridiculousness, he knew, but he was glad of it. He wouldn’t feel like _quite_ such a fool.

“You could help me with my cap, though?” Belle grinned at the way he fidgeted. It was one thing or another with his hands, almost constant since he’d come into the storage room. It was oddly endearing. “I’d only make a mess of my hair, if I tried without a mirror.”

She showed him which bobby pins to remove, watching the concentration on his face as he carefully fished each out. It was an excuse, really, and only partially for the enjoyment of having him remove another piece of her uniform. It was also because a Rummond whose mind had a task was a Rummond who was a tad less nervous. And indeed, she could see the anxiety wear away from his movements as he set her white cap on top of her apron, tucking her pins into the pocket.

When Rummond looked back to her, she was arranging her skirt again. She drew it higher, more out of the way, and God help him, he couldn’t help but stare down as the pale skin of her upper thighs came slowly into view. Higher, and the whitework embroidered edge of her drawers peeked from underneath.

The little smirk playing at the corners of Belle’s mouth was utterly unapologetic as she asked, “Help me with these, too?”

His face flushed that much worse despite his smile as he ran his hands up the outside of her thighs, toward her hips. He found the waistband, but it was snug to her skin.

“There’s a ribbon at the side,” she said.

A blush rose to her own cheeks as his fingers searched for it. She felt horribly forward, but God, she _needed_ him, and the feeling was so new to her, so novel, she chased after it with a stubborn refusal to hold it back.

He found the slender tie and pulled it loose. Belle shifted backward, raising up enough so that he could more easily slide them over her hips and out from under her bottom, down her thighs. He had to step out of the bracing of her legs to get them all the way down and off her feet, but she grabbed him to bring him back to her. They were silk, he found. Light as air. Far too thin, he thought, for winter. Unless she’d worn them with the intention of him seeing them. The idea of it aroused him all the more.

Belle reached for the belt of his robe, slipping it loose. “Will you take this off?” she asked, and he nodded without hesitation.

She pushed his robe off his shoulders and took it as he freed his arms from the sleeves, tossing it over with her things. Watching his face for signs of reluctance, she began pulling his hospital gown up, gathering the soft cotton higher between her hands. His underwear was heavier than hers. A thicker cotton than his gown. She curled her fingers into the waist of them and began tugging them down, her hands running along his skin as she went.

“You don’t have to,” he said, lifting his hands to catch her arms. “I can-”

“I want to.” Belle leaned to kiss him, sucking gently at his lower lip as she pulled away, and met him with a smile when he opened his eyes. “Sometime, I’ll get to take everything off you. But since I can’t just now, I want to do this much.”

His smile was shy again when it returned to his face. She pushed his underwear down to the end of her reach.

“Can I, now?” he asked, and she found him grinning.

Rummond stepped out of his slippers, then the rest of the way out of his underwear. His feet might not be warm, but he felt as if he’d be steadier. As soon as he’d dropped the small garment aside, her hands were on him again, as though his half turn had taken him too far away. He delighted in the way she kept drawing him so close.

Belle worked her way beneath his gown again. She palmed his narrow hips, her thumbs stroking too-sharp hipbones, despite how much better he’d been eating. She couldn’t get enough of the feeling of him beneath her hands, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever wanted anything so badly as she wanted him in that moment.

His heart thumped almost painfully against his ribcage. He hadn’t been touched so much for long in _years._ And to attempt to take in the way her hands felt on him beneath his clothes made his head reel. He wanted more - more of her touch, more touching her, just _more._ His hands clenched in her skirts for want of it.

“Come here,” she said again, sliding her hands around his sides, bringing him right up against her. She pulled at his gown so that it caught on her lap and wouldn’t fall again.

Belle squirmed a little, moving both of them until she had his bare skin pressed to the uncovered insides of her thighs. The gasp it elicited from him made her stomach flip. She could _feel_ him, now - the heat of his erection brushing up against her curls. It was only a matter of angle, perhaps shifting toward him a little, and she could have him inside. A thrill ran through her, and she felt a throb at the core of her with the thought.

He pressed his lips together, jaw so tight it hurt, to keep desperate sounds of need from escaping him. He wouldn’t ruin this. Already he held himself back from rubbing against her, and if the two of them simply _touching_ sent him this near the edge, he didn’t know how he could last once they were at it.

“Rummond?” she said, and he felt her hands cupped at his jaw before he realized how tightly he had his eyes screwed shut.

He hummed in answer, mouth remaining closed.

She brought her face close to his, attempting to kiss him. A moan died at the back of his throat. Belle stroked her fingers comfortingly at the sides of his neck.

“You can make sounds,” she told him. “The walls aren’t so thin that we have to be completely silent.”

Rummond opened his eyes to look up at her, shaking his head.

“You don’t want to?”

He shook his head again. She only looked at him for a moment, and he got the feeling that she was trying to understand. “Are you all right, though?” she asked.

Rummond leaned to brush his nose alongside hers, showing her without words that he was. She pressed kisses at the corners of his mouth before trying another proper kiss, and he felt her smiling against his lips. She finally teased him into kissing her back, and he unclenched the muscles of his jaw at the coaxing of her fingertips.

“What’s the matter?” she asked when the kiss parted.

He chuckled, more breath than laughter. “I’m not going to last.”

Belle had meant regarding his overzealousness in refusing to make a sound, but she let it alone for now. At least he’d opened his mouth to speak. “It’s all right if you don’t. We don’t have to rush back.”

She lowered her hands, taking his from either side of her, and quite blatantly directed them beneath her dress.

“Are you certain?” he asked, his eyes and voice soft.

She answered with the way her thighs squeezed against him, drawing a helpless groan from him that made his face flush again. She so badly wanted to see how far beyond his neck he colored like that.

“I’m _certain._ I want you,” she whispered to him once more, trying to leave him without a single doubt of it.

Rummond let his hands rest on her legs, after a moment running them up the silk of her stockings until he found her garters, and then the line where the rolled edge met her skin. He looked down to see his hands on her.

Her garters were rather plain little things, blue with a lighter stripe around, a single, simple rosette on each to disguise the closure. He wanted to see every inch of her legs, but he decided that he had no right to ask about removing her stockings, when his refused to get out of his hospital gown.

His left hand, he moved along the delicate skin at the crease of her leg to cup at her hip, and he stroked the back of his right hand up the inside of her leg. Belle’s hands found his shoulders again and made their way into the hair at his nape, her fingers tightening there the nearer he got to the apex of her thighs.

She made an encouraging, contented sound. The simple sensation of his hands on her bare skin - on _that_ bare skin - made her toes curl a little. Her legs squeezed around him, her body wanting him to hurry even as her conscious desire was for him to take his time.

Belle’s skirts were pushed further around her waist as his hand continued closer, until he could see a patch of soft, auburn-brown curls, and the head of his cock nestled into them. His mouth fell open, in need as he was of more air. He slid his hand down, beneath himself, and found the curls there downright wet.

“Oh, God. Belle,” he gasped, and her fingers closed around a fistful of his hair.

Just as quietly, she gave him a strained, “Rum, _please_ …”

He pressed his fingertips gently into her folds, grazing at her entrance. The sheer heat of her made him twitch where he rested against her, and a bead of liquid gathered at the tip.

Belle’s thoughts were so clouded with _want_ and _need_ that she hardly realized how she pulled herself closer to the edge of the table, leveraged by her legs around him. She didn’t think it would take much more to make her beg, or demand, or _anything_ that would get Rummond to go on.

He glanced up at her, to make certain that she was all right with what he was doing, and the way she looked sent his head spinning a bit. Her cheeks had flushed a deeper red than he’d seen on her. She watched him with a fevered look, her breath quickened. She pulled him to her for a kiss that he was all too happy to give, and he felt another vibration as she moaned. She pulled away, running out of air faster, now, and he took the moment to kiss her neck.

Rummond left a short trail of kisses up her throat, having to force himself away from the urge to suck at her skin or use his teeth. He feared marking her. Or rather, he feared the trouble she might find because of it. Kissing along one side of her jawline, he nudged his nose against her cheek to ask for her mouth, and she turned her face toward him. The kisses he gave and took were short, full of breath and her soft noises, and they both smiled into them.

He slid his middle and ring fingers into her, and she made a keening groan into his mouth. When he curled them, stroking along her inner walls as he pulled his hand away a little, she bit his lip. He startled at the sharpness of her teeth.

Belle broke the kiss. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” she said, but there was a grin on her face. She kissed him again, drawing his bitten lip into her mouth, and ran the tip of her tongue over the accidental nip. She hadn’t drawn blood, at least. She’d have felt badly about it, if she had, but the usual nips and pinches that seemed commonplace in their lengthier rounds of kissing thrilled her for reasons she couldn’t seem to point out.

Rummond’s thought were hazy with desire and his heart felt as though it might take flight straight through his chest, and the urgency in Belle’s kisses served to make it more difficult to think in any manner of straight line. He had to pull together a great many fragments of focus before he could speak in a way that might make sense.

“Belle, you’re-”

“Yes!” she snipped, startling herself, then laughed at her own vehemence. “Yes,” she said more calmly, and she plucked a pair of kisses from his lips.

“I- I- mean- I wasn’t-”

He went a bit bashful, and it took her a moment to gather that he was concerned. She took a deep breath, gathering her wits about her a little. “What were you going to say?”

“I, ah- I’m not sure I know how to ask. I-”

“Just ask. It doesn’t matter.”

He shook his head. “It matters. This matters.” He hesitated again, then asked a quiet and worried string of, “Do I need to be careful? No, I- I know I need to be- I only mean, how careful do I need to be? Should I-”

Belle leaned to kiss him as much out of a sudden wave of love as the need to still his words. That he’d even asked was remarkable in a way that she wished it weren’t.

“Careful,” she said, so near that her lips brushed his. “But not overly? You understand?”

“I understand.” He nodded, slipping his fingers from her.

She made a disappointed little noise, though she knew much more was on the way. His hand at her hip moved to press splayed in the small of her back, and he brought her to the very edge of the exam table. With the movement, she felt him glide up against her abdomen. Rummond’s brow creased, and he made a soft, needy sound that had her shifting impatiently. She felt the fingers he’d had inside her slide across her skin when he reached down to take himself in hand - fingers hot and slick because of _her._

He guided the head to her entrance and pushed slowly forward, and the feeling of it took her breath. She felt a stretch as he slid into her, the sensation making her heart thump harder. She hadn’t expected that. It was… _more_ than she’d experienced before. Belle wouldn’t have minded either way, as far as that went, but now that they were here, she took a bit of pleasure in the fact of it.

She thought perhaps they _should_ have made a place on the floor with the blanket, but he was inside her, and God, she didn’t want him to move away from her yet. Or ever. All she wanted in the world was for him to keep going.

Rummond shook with the effort of staying still. Her hands, clenched hard in his hair, gave him a point to concentrate on outside of the feeling of the two of them joined. He took a shaking hand from beneath her dress, wrapping his arm around her.

They both panted, breathing one another’s breath as they attempted to gain enough of a grasp on their faculties to do more than cling.

“It’s been a while,” he said, sheepish, as if he should be ashamed of it. 

Belle smiled, her response a kiss. She licked deeper into his mouth, curling her tongue against his before he’d registered what she was doing. His arm tightened around her and his hips collided with hers in what she was almost positive was an involuntary thrust in reciprocation. 

“I’m sorry, I-” he began.

She groaned aloud. “No,” she said, forcing her hands from his hair out of worry that she might pull it out, if they kept on this way. “Move.”

Misinterpreting, he leaned away as much as her arms and legs allowed, afraid he’d hurt her by moving before she was ready.

“No!” Belle gasped, holding onto him. She wound her arms around his shoulders, clutching at the back of his gown. “No, sweetheart. I mean, _move.”_

He let her pull him to her again, feeling an unusually soft give of her breasts against his chest. Rummond began to thrust slowly, listening to the litany of sweet, encouraging sounds that she made between kisses. It was a bit of an awkward angle - the table’s height wasn’t quite perfect - meaning that he couldn’t move too deeply into her. It was good, though, he thought. It meant less chance of him hurting her.

Belle could tell that he smothered any noises he might have made. She could hear the small ones that escaped, but for the most part, he was all gasps and soft huffs of breath, sounds subdued in his throat before they could free themselves. She wanted to hear them, certain that they would be maddening and lovely. It wasn’t an issue she would push yet, though.

His hand beneath her dress spread flat and broad over her lower back, fingertips pressing into her skin. The other held desperately onto a handful of the back of her dress between her shoulderblades. It pulled the fabric snug around her, making her head reel giddily. She didn’t realize how hard she held onto the back of his hospital gown, herself.

Rummond could feel her hands flexing in time with their movements, her fists pressing into the muscles of his back. The way she held onto him made his heart ache. No one had ever before held him so close or so tightly.

Belle rocked as well as she could in rhythm with him, finding the loveliest bit of friction just where she needed it. Their kisses tapered off when the rhythm they’d found grew more intense, and he tucked his face into the curve of her neck. She turned her head, pressing her mouth and nose into his hair.

She tilted her hips up as best she could to meet his quickening thrusts, and she felt herself getting _so close._ She hadn’t expected to get there, not really. It was only by herself that she’d ever managed to find that particular part of the pleasure. Everything about making love was different with Rummond, it seemed.

There was barely time for her to draw a shocked breath when it happened. Her eyes squeezed shut with the first wave of orgasm, her legs trembling and drawing higher around his sides. She felt herself contract around him within, and it set off another wave crashing through her.

Rummond knew when he fell out of rhythm, his body going from having the sense to keep moving evenly in an attempt to make the feeling last, to giving in to _need_ when he felt Belle finish. She made the most wonderful sound, something between a whimper and a moan, her voice so near his ear that he felt it. Her body leaned back with the intensity of it, and he held her upright in his arms.

He felt the pattern of her muscles tensing and releasing all over, and she clenched _hard_ around him inside. There were only seconds between her orgasm taking her and his, then, as she pulled him along with her. He buried his face in the shoulder of her dress to quieten his groan as he went tense, his hips jerking against her in quick, short thrusts. 

Belle combed her fingers through Rummond’s hair. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears, still, and both their labored breathing beneath it. Suddenly, the frantic need between them was gone and there was nothing more than the two of them clinging to one another, catching their breath in the calm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I think there'll be a small supplemental chapter connecting to the end of this one in a few days. Keep an eye out for an off-schedule addition.)


	75. Honey and Milk Under My Tongue

It took a few moments for the delicious haze of satisfaction to thin enough that Belle became aware they needed to move. They couldn’t stay in these positions. She couldn’t imagine that Rummond would remain comfortable for long, standing the way he was.

“Rummond…” she murmured, pulling her fingers gently through the half-curls that lay over the collar of his gown.

His hand released the back of her dress, and she felt the one beneath relax against her. The feeling of his fingertips stroking along her skin sent a last, shuddering aftershock through her. She moaned softly and ducked her head to press a lingering kiss to the side of his neck.

Staying there, she said again, “Rum, sweetheart?”

She felt the leather pad under her give as he braced a hand next to her, pulling back a bit. His hand in the small of her back slid away, the warmth of his palm moving to her hip, then to the outside of her thigh before it was lost to her.

Rummond looked at her, and there was a hesitance in his features that didn’t dispel until she smiled at him. Her smile was reflected in his own face. He lifted his hand to curl at the side of her neck, and she met him halfway for a kiss softer and more languid than the ones they’d shared over the course of the past hour.

She slowly broke the kiss, and he followed to touch his head to hers. Much as she was loath to part them, Belle made the suggestion out of concern. “We should probably move, hm?”

He nodded, taking the hand from her back and leaning away a little. He hadn’t yet moved farther when he said, “Belle?”

She looked at him in question.

“If you want me to move, you might need to let go a bit,” he told her quietly, his accent thickened in a way that sent licks of heat along her skin. He reminded her with a grin, “Your legs?”

“I suppose that might help,” she agreed with a little amusement. Apparently her body was even more reluctant to let go than she’d thought.

Belle relaxed her thighs around him. Next time, she hoped, they’d find a position that was more comfortable in the slightly longer term, and neither of them would have to move for a good, long time.

She felt him slip out of her, and she missed his presence immediately. With a little more difficulty, she released the handful of his gown she still held onto.

“Come up here, with me?” she asked. She moved her hands away from him to push herself backward on the exam table. It would fit them both, if they lay side by side.

Rummond’s gown fell to cover him again. He waited until Belle pulled her legs onto the table before he turned to hitch himself up onto it after her. He was glad of the idea - besides not wanting to leave her so soon, his knees didn’t feel steady enough to carry him back to the ward.

He stretched himself out on his side and she lay facing him, resting her head on his arm when he extended it for her.

“I’m sorry that it wasn’t-” he began.

“You’re _apologizing?”_ Belle raised her head, calming her expression so that she didn’t gape so openly at him. “Why on earth would you apologize? I started it. I wanted to. I-”

“I know. I- I-” He shook his head and she stopped, hoping to stem his fluster by not further interrupting his explanation. “I’d hoped our first- first- _intimacy_ together would be somewhere nice. Perhaps slower.”

Belle smiled so fondly at him. _That_ was his worry? “I thought we went plenty slowly.”

“Well, we-” One corner of his mouth tugged into an almost timid smile. “It was good? For you? You had your… paroxysm?”

She had to exercise every bit of her willpower to keep from getting tickled at his dated word. “You couldn’t tell?” she asked with a broad smile, nudging one of her knees between his.

“I felt you,” he said under his breath, turning a bit pink across the apples of his cheeks. She found that she liked it far too much, making him blush.

Belle slid her hand across his chest, reveling in the sigh it brought from him. She curled her fingers around the back of his neck to get them into his hair again. “I felt you, too.”

His flush deepened, and he closed his eyes, wrapping the arm not serving as Belle’s pillow around her to hold her more closely.

“It was lovely, Rummond. It was _wonderful,”_ she told him, scratching her nails lightly against his scalp. “I want very much to do it again sometime.”

“I just didn’t want it to be something regretful,” he said, opening his eyes so that he could look into hers. “I want you to be happy.”

She tilted her head up to kiss him firmly, doing her best to put all she felt into it. She was pleased to find him a bit breathless and darker-eyed when she pulled away.

“I _am_ happy. I don’t know that I’ve ever been so happy,” she confessed. She rubbed her cheek against his arm before settling her head there again. “And there is nothing about what we did that I could regret, but if it would make _you_ happy, then we can make sure that next time is nicer and slower.”

Rummond’s tentativeness and concern even after they’d finished left her marvelling a bit. It all really was nothing like what she’d known before. Donat had muttered things during that gave her an unsettled feeling. He’d coerced, pulled and pushed, taken until he was done. He had never asked whether she wanted to, whether she was ready, whether she enjoyed any particular thing. With Donat, the physical and emotional discomfort had overshadowed everything. She’d been ready to have it over with before it began.

With Rummond, though, the intensity of her feelings - emotional, physical - were the joy of it. She never had the sense of him _taking_ from her. From the beginning, it felt like the two of them _together,_ and that was new.

They lay there as long as they could, exchanging occasional kisses and taking in all the close contact and touch that they could in the time they had left. Eventually, she had to unwrap herself from him to sit up. She reached to the other end of the table to unearth her watch, sorting through apron straps until she could check the hour. With not a little disappointment, she found it very near time for her to return to the ward. 

“We need to be getting back,” she grumbled. 

“So soon?” Rummond asked. He gazed up at her, and she thought he might actually look a bit sleepy. 

“Nurse Novak took the last check. I’ve just about fifteen minutes before the next.”

He sat up behind her, looking over her shoulder at her watch. “We’ve been here that long?”

She leaned back into him, for a moment letting herself entertain thoughts of staying right there a while longer. But she sighed and scooted toward the edge of the table, hanging her legs over.

“Time flies,” she said, letting herself slide off the edge and soundlessly to the floor on stocking feet. “Unfortunately.”

Rummond turned to sit in the space she left. He reached over, pulling his robe from among her things so that she wouldn’t have to navigate around it. Putting it back on, for the most part, he watched as she took her apron and began figuring out the crossed-up straps.

“We’ll find the time again,” he said, and she could hear how he tried to make it a statement rather than a question.

“We will,” Belle told him with a grin. “We’ve more than enough sneak between the two of us, you and I. We’ll find time again, when we can and want.”

She pulled the wrong way on one of her apron ties in trying to get it unwrapped from itself, and lost a few pieces of candy from the pocket. Bending to pick them up, she set them on the table next to her cap. It gave her a little thrill of happiness to catch Rummond sorting a peppermint from among them without being encouraged to, though he seemed only to fiddle with it.

Belle glanced up at him, and she found him looking curiously at her chest. She looked down at herself, then to him again. “What is it?”

His gaze flickered up to her face, caught, and he opened his mouth to nervously defend his stare.

She stepped closer, asking softly, “What?”

Rummond shrugged a little, a self-conscious almost-smile hanging lopsidedly in one corner of his mouth. “You-” He pointed between her body and his, remembering the feeling, then patted his own chest. “When you were pressed to me, you were… very soft.”

Her figure was so slight, it had never before occurred to him that she might not wear something structured. But he’d felt nothing like what he knew of the typical lady’s underthings.

Belle caught easily onto his curiosity. “Here,” she said, taking one of his hands, and she held it to her breast. He froze for a few seconds. Her fingers made short strokes along the back of his wrist as he tentatively began to explore, and she had a pang of wanting his hand cupped to her bare skin. Next time, she hoped.

His thumb ran slowly along the top curve of her breast, his fingers curling with gentle pressure at the side. He felt her lean into his touch just a bit. Still, there was absolutely nothing providing resistance against his hand.

Belle watched his facial expression move through surprise, back to curiosity, to interest, and to surprise again.

“You aren’t wearing any sort of stays,” he murmured.

“I haven’t worn a corset since my first few days with the Voluntary Aid,” she admitted with a wrinkle of her nose. “They’re the height of unhelpfulness, moving around and trying to perform procedures.”

Eventually, eyebrows raised, he asked in a whisper as if someone might hear, “Are you wearing _nothing?”_

She laughed a little at his reaction. “Of course I’m wearing something. It simply isn’t something squeezing the life out of me while I work.”

He looked from her face to her chest again, and she found him giving her the unmistakable, tilting look of a puppy having heard a noise that it couldn’t quite place. She rose onto her tiptoes to kiss him again, staying for a moment with his hand on her. Even if through her dress, it felt nice, and the warmth of his palm made it through the fabric after a while. When she went to break the kiss, he followed her a little way, and she wished all the more that they didn’t have to go back to the ward just yet.

“I’ll show you one day,” she promised.

He let his hand drop away from her as she stepped back, running the pad of his thumb across his fingertips.

She placed her apron next to him, laid out just as she would need it to put it on, and took her drawers from the table. Rummond watched as she slipped them on, the fine fabric shivering with her movement as she made them disappear beneath her dress. He got a peek of her hip as she gathered the side of her skirts up to tie the ribbon at her waist before shaking them back down.

 _“I…”_ she began, reaching to grab one of her shoes, resting a hand on his knee to balance as she wedged it back on, “need to make a washroom visit. But you should go ahead back to the ward.”

He frowned a bit, shaking his head. “I’ll wait for you.”

Belle dipped down to retrieve her other shoe from its location half beneath the exam table. “No, no, you need to go back in first. Back into bed. I won’t be long, but nighttime or not, we shouldn’t go back in together.”

His frown bloomed into a grin. “You think someone will suss it out we’ve been absent for _purposes?”_

“The way you look…” She chuckled, reaching up to smooth his hair, calming it a little so that it didn’t look quite so much as if someone had held onto handfuls of it. “It wouldn’t be so difficult a guess.”

“And what do I look like?” he asked, lifting his own hands to tuck wisps of hair back behind her ears.

 _Pink,_ she thought, grinning up at him. _Dazed and happy._ “Like you’ve just had a suspiciously nice time.”

“I did,” he said softly. “And you- you did?”

“Oh, yes,” Belle assured him again with a smile, stepping between his knees much the same way he’d stood between hers not too many minutes before.

She could admit to herself now how she’d been nervous, hoping so hard that it _would_ be nice, after her only experiences had been decidedly lackluster. But she’d _needed_ Rummond, and he’d needed her, and it had turned out wonderfully. She felt a warmth stirring in her. If she didn’t go back to work now, she knew she’d be tempted to crawl right back onto the table and pull his gown up again.

Her cheeks heated at the thought, and she rose onto her toes to kiss him yet again. She felt him take a deep breath, his chest expanding against hers as she pressed herself close.

With a hum of longing, she stepped back, taking her apron with her. She put it on over her head, threading her arms through. While she was making certain her straps were turned over the right way all down the back, Rummond came down from the examination table, careful to let his weight land on his left foot.

“Here, love,” he said, spinning a circle with one forefinger.

She turned, and he took his time tying her apron strings into a bow. When he’d finished, she bumped his slippers near his feet with the toe of her shoe.

“Ah, yes,” he said. “Humbert would have fits, if he knew how long I went barefoot.”

Belle snickered, having witnessed Graham's repeated reminders. “We won’t tell him.”

“Well, thank you for saving me a scolding.” He took his underwear from the floor and got carefully into them.

“He fusses because he cares. If he didn’t like you, he wouldn’t bother to hound you about keeping your feet warm.”

Rummond stepped back into said slippers, and she caught him by both sides of his robe, smiling as she overlapped them. His hands came up to rest at her waist while she tied his belt into the one-sided half bow that she’d many times seen him loop it into. 

“All right,” she said, a sigh slipping in beneath her words. “Go on, before Astrid decides she should go looking for one or the other of us.”

He didn’t want to walk away from her, though. His hands flexed at the sides of her waist, and it wasn’t until she brought her own hands up to pat them on his upper chest that he made himself let go.

“I’ll be right in,” she told him, “and I’ll be along to you after I walk the ward.”

Rummond gave her a nod, taking her hands in his and pressing a kiss to the fingers of each. Before he could move away, she brought one of his hands to her lips to return the gesture, beaming as she did. It made something squeeze around his heart.

He reached over to take his cane from the end of the table, fetching her cap to her at the same time. She held onto his hand all the way to the storage room door, where this time she found it was herself reluctant to let go. 

He hesitated to reach for the door handle, turning to face her. “I love you,” he said quietly, and he felt her fingers tighten around his.

Oh, he was making it more and more difficult to let him leave the room. Belle leaned up for just one more kiss, grabbing hold of his lapel with her free hand to make it a good and sound one.

“I love you,” she echoed, having a bit of a stare at his face before they had to return to the dark of the ward. “Now, go, before…” She slipped her hand from his and waved it urgently at him.

She turned the light off before he opened the door so that it wouldn’t blaze out into the foyer, and she watched him pass the end of the desk, waiting until he’d disappeared around the turn onto the east wing before she closed it.

Belle fished the little matchbox from her pocket and went over to relight her lantern. She checked her watch. The timing would be close. She went to the door and leaned her forehead against the jamb, counting two minutes before leaving the room. Heading around the opposite end of the front desk, she went just into the west corridor entrance to get to the nurses’ washroom.

She was particularly glad of her two petticoats tonight. It meant that nothing would soak through her dress, though they would have to go right into the laundry when she got home. The one closest to her skin, at least. With damp hands, she repaired the frazzled halo around her hair, and pinned her cap back into place. After making certain that she didn’t look as if she’d been up to anything, as Ruby would put it, she took a cloth from the shelf to wash up.

She couldn’t remove her diaphragm for hours and hours yet, but with a pleased smile and a renewed flutter in her abdomen, she found that for once she didn’t mind it.

Rummond pushed the ward door open just enough to slip back in. The room was by no means loud, but the usual night noises of snoring and creaking bedsprings seemed vaguely intrusive, somehow. He felt a bit like an exposed nerve, as if every bit of the ward atmosphere grated at him in the afterglow of Belle’s softness and warmth.

He felt a little lightheaded, a little in disbelief. _They’d made love._ He smiled so broadly on his way back to his bunk that it seemed a real possibility his face might crack. He was glad of the darkness to hide it.

For once, it wasn’t a struggle to get warm in his blankets. He faced the doors and waited, opening the peppermint from his pocket and popping it into his mouth. His heart gave a flip when Belle walked back in, heralded by the golden spot of her lantern.

She returned with only a minute or two to spare. Astrid sat in the extra chair she’d placed over next to hers, and she sent the other nurse a gesture of greeting as she crossed to the left side to do checks.

Belle discovered that she was a little sore when she moved, though it wasn’t unwelcome. It didn’t feel like a dent to her spirit, or some physical manifestation of regret, the way she’d thought of a similar feeling before. She enjoyed the small ache, the reminder that _he’d been there_ slipping every so often through her thoughts, and she found herself smiling over it as she walked through the ward.

Rummond realized that a very awake Lieutenant Hargreaves observed him as he sat up to watch Belle make her way down the far aisle. On her way up their side, between her lantern and Nurse Novak’s, he caught sight of the broad smirk on the Lieutenant’s face.

Jefferson flicked his eyes between the two of them, bouncing his eyebrows suggestively.

“What?” Rummond snipped, though his smile lingered.

“Not a thing,” Jefferson whispered, lying back and drumming his hands one above the other on his stomach. _“Not_ a thing.”


	76. Tim'rous Beastie

“Well, aren’t _you_ merry as a grig?”

Belle looked up from stuffing her gloves into her coat pocket, surprised. “I thought you and your grandmother were spending the day in the shops?”

“Oh, Granny’s rheumatism is bothering her.” Ruby sighed. “And Nurse Lind needed someone who knows her filing system to work for her, besides.”

Unbuttoning her coat, Belle walked up to the front desk, leaning her arms on the raised counter. “I’m sorry your day out fell through.”

Ruby shrugged. She picked up a stack of notes regarding calls that Nurse Lind intended to return, and she rolled over to place them near the telephone to wait for a decent hour. “She’ll be all right by my next day off. We’ll go then. And I’m sure dress shops will have added themselves to her list by that time.”

“So you’ve told her.”

“I figured I may as well bite the bullet, yes.”

“And?”

“She’s a little cautious, but Victor’s been invited for dinner next week.” Ruby came rolling back, stopping in front of Belle. She propped her chin in her hands. “She knows I’m serious about marrying him. We had a long, stomach-churning discussion about it.”

Belle grinned at her. “I told you.”

“She hasn’t encountered him since he’s been my fiancé.” Ruby pulled a face. “Lord, that sounds so strange, still. What if he changes his mind after Granny gives him a going over?” She looked up at Belle.

“He is _not_ going to change his mind just because of your grandmother,” Belle reassured her. “He isn’t an idiot.”

Ruby dropped her hands, clapping them to the desk. “Let’s get back to my question, please?” she said, eyebrows raised in expectation. “You. Merry as a grig. Whatever those are.”

“Crickets, I believe. And yes,” Belle chirped, her smile a broad one. “Yes, I am. Thank you for noticing.”

“I’m more interested in _why_ you’re so cheerful, missy.”

“That would be my secret!” she said, but her smile betrayed her by growing.

Ruby’s eyes narrowed. _“Secret,”_ she scoffed, smirking. “I know how that sort of bounce gets into a girl’s step.”

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” Belle claimed. “And neither do you.”

 _“Oh,_ yes I do.” Ruby lowered her voice before going on to accuse, “You’ve got yourself a new man, and you haven’t told me.”

Belle shook her head, but she replied, “I do keep some things to myself.”

“So you _do!”_ Ruby all but crowed, bouncing in her chair as Belle made shushing gestures at her. “You do?”

“I-” Belle pressed her lips between her teeth for a second. “I might.”

Ruby lit up, anxious to devour every detail that she could pry from her friend. “Who is he? Do I know him?”

“In a way.”

“I know him in a way?”

“Mmhm,” Belle hummed shortly.

She wasn’t sure whether Ruby hadn’t generally been observant, or whether she and Rummond had been far subtler than she thought they were, but she silently blessed whichever it was that kept knowledge of it under wraps to some degree.

“Oh, my _God._ With Captain Gold?” Ruby hissed under her breath, her eyes going wide. They relaxed, then, as she thought about it. “Was he good?”

Belle dropped her head to rest on her arms. So much for under wraps or unobservant. “Ruby!” she gasped, muffled by the sleeve of her coat. She lifted her head enough to look at her friend. “How do you even know we…?”

“Oh, come on, Belle. There’s _something_ to that little swish I saw you come in with,” Ruby said, swaying her hips and making the chair move side to side a bit on its casters. “How was the _celebration?”_

Belle rolled her eyes as Ruby picked up the silly euphemism again.

Ruby’s advice had been sound, she decided. And her friend knew a great deal more than anyone gave her credit for. She did have time to talk a little, and honestly, she was dying to share her excitement with someone.

“He’s…” Belle smiled, warmth flooding her cheeks. “Sweet.”

“Sweet? That’s it? That’s all I get?”

Belle gave a sigh of exasperation. “It was nice, Ruby. It was fantastic. What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to _tell_ me about it!”

“I am not going to recount it moment by moment for an audience!”

“That’s fine, then. I’m not an audience. I’m me.” Ruby beckoned both hands in an ‘out with it’ gesture.

Belle pushed away from the counter. “It’s such a shame I have to go clock in.”

Ruby hopped up to follow. “Oh, fine,” she said, walking along with Belle. “But… he was better than _Donat?_ Seriously? Donat didn’t do it for you, but Captain Gold really- Granny’d say something like ‘lights your candle’?”

Belle couldn’t help her grin over the fantasy that Ruby had built up in her head about Donat Gaston’s prowess. “Better,” she at last confirmed. “Much. So much.”

Ruby froze mid-step and watched Belle continue on. Belle looked back over her shoulder and laughed, and Ruby hurried to catch up, her shoes clicking along on the tile.

“Oh, no, no, you can’t leave me with that and not explain!” Ruby demanded as quietly as she could, hovering next to the time clock while Belle hung her coat and pulled down her card.

“He was sweet,” Belle said again. “And kind. Sort of hesitant, at first, and concerned for _me_ …”

Ruby listened, absolutely transfixed as Belle’s expression took on a happily glazed look.

“He was attentive. He actually paid attention. It was never as if he thought it was all meant for _him._ It was mine, too,” Belle explained softly, and she felt such a pull of longing for Rummond that she ached behind her breastbone. She pinched her bottom lip between her teeth, bringing her back to the present.

Suddenly aware of how intently Ruby stared, she focused on putting her card through the clock.

 _“Captain Gold?”_ Ruby asked. “East ward Captain Gold?”

“I’m unaware of any more Golds in the hospital, Ruby.”

Ruby continued to stare. “Who on earth would’ve guessed, that little guy.”

“Not so much, as a matter of fact,” Belle said before she could stop it from coming out of her mouth, making her own face burn.

Ruby gasped, eyes wide again. _“Really?”_

Belle turned on her heel before she could be persuaded into a conversation more lewd than she wanted to take part in on this particular topic.

“We have a briefing this morning,” Ruby told her before she could head toward the kitchen to make the usual cup of tea. “All nurses on shift. There was a note about it on the desk when I came in.”

Belle grimaced. She wouldn’t have much time before her shift was on to spend with Rummond, then. If any, depending on what the head nurse had in mind for them while she had a captive audience. “That bodes well. The note didn’t happen to mention what it’s regarding?”

“Only that she’s holding one,” Ruby said. “We don’t have a new patient incoming, as far as I know, so I don’t have the faintest.”

They stopped a bit down from the head nurse’s door, waiting for the rest of the day shift to arrive.

“She’s already in her office,” Ruby whispered after a moment, directing Belle’s gaze to the sliver of light coming from under the door with a nod of her head.

It was a rare thing anymore, Nurse Mills being in earlier than she arrived. Belle traded a look with Ruby. Making her footsteps soft, she stepped close enough to the door to listen. There were voices, though too hushed to discern who the second person might be or what was being said.

A couple of nurses from the west ward came in to wait, followed by Nurse Halloran. They trickled slowly in until the hallway held more than a dozen uniformed women awaiting Nurse Mills’ imperious call to order.

At ten minutes prior to start of shift, the head nurse opened the door. She gave a hard look to her underling nurses before standing back to allow them in.

“Look smart, ladies,” she told them snidely as they filed past her. “It’ll be a tight fit this morning, and we’ve a guest.”

“Ohh, damn it all…” Ruby breathed from behind Belle.

Small and endlessly severe, there stood Gormlaith Fowler in her crisp, blue woolen dress, capelet buttoned tight at her throat. She eyed the three rows of nurses as though they had committed some offense against her.

In a way, Belle though, perhaps they had. They’d stolen away one of the orphanage matron’s most lucrative interns.

“All of you have met Ms. Fowler,” the head nurse said, closing the door just a bit too hard.

There would be theatrics, then. Belle steeled herself for them.

“Ms. Fowler, these would be _my_ girls,” Nurse Mills went on. “I’m sure we could compare tales on the challenges of keeping young women on the straight and narrow.”

“I’m sure we could, at that,” Ms. Fowler agreed with just a touch too much false cheer in her voice, raking her eyes over the group of nurses.

Belle had read of beady eyes in more than one novel, but before crossing paths with Ms. Fowler for the first time, she’d not really believed a human being could possess them. The woman had a smile to match - strained, tight and hollow, as if she didn’t quite know how to force a convincing one.

Nurse Mills took her place behind her desk. “Ms. Fowler has something of a problem, and I believe my nurses might be of some help. You all know Nurse Astrid Novak - one of the dear little things that Ms. Fowler has raised by hand. She’s retained guardianship over Nurse Novak, and unfortunately, the girl has gone missing from her care. When did you say you saw her most recently?” Nurse Mills looked to the matron, directing the room’s attention to her, as well.

“The evening of Wednesday last. The twentieth, when she arrived home from her shift,” Ms. Fowler said with a sad put-on shake of her head. “Her belongings are missing, so I can only assume she’s run away for some reason. Young and naïve as she is, she’s quite impressionable. I’m afraid any number of people might have taken advantage of her.”

“Advantage of her what?” Ruby muttered under her breath from the row behind Belle. “Her desperation to get away from that prison?”

Belle was only glad that Astrid wasn’t in the hospital today for the pair of ruthless women stood before them to hunt down. Nurse Magna Hua from the north ward had traded days off with her. Just now, Astrid either still slept or sat down to a fine breakfast with Mrs. Lucas, Belle expected, and _no one_ was liable to get past Ruby’s grandmother.

Nurse Mills stepped around to the front of her desk to bring attention back to herself. “If any of you has seen Nurse Novak since the twentieth or has information as to her whereabouts, you will speak up,” she demanded, staring them down.

The room remained silent. It was likely that every nurse there knew or had seen something of Astrid in the past week, including Nurse Nolan, and yet not a word was spoken.

“I have difficulty believing that a nurse I’m quite positive many of you are friends with has disappeared without a single trace,” the head nurse said, pursing her lips tightly.

“Perhaps if they were given time to think a while,” Ms. Fowler added, a small rictus of a smile forming on her lips. “I’m sure one of your girls can come up with something.”

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

When the nurses were at last dismissed and Belle could go down to make a cup of tea, she went onto the ward. It was just in time for her shift to begin, meaning that she had only a moment to spend with Rummond before needing to perform her morning checks.

Rummond was still doing well, judging by all she saw. When food was set in front of him, he did his best to eat, though lunch and dinner still went over much better than breakfast did. He might have been making a habit of getting down an entire cup of tea before it grew cold. By all reports, his sleep had improved a little. She was certain that he had more nightmares than he told her of, but he managed a couple of hours here and there. If he suffered hallucinations, she couldn’t tell and he didn’t tell her - something she didn’t put past him. Even so, it would mean they were less pervasive, if that was the situation. She’d have been doubtful if either of his doctors yet mentioned discharging him, but she was glad for _him_ that he was at the very least having a stretch of good days, after the awful ones she’d watched him slog through.

She had only enough time to set his tea near him and exchange a few sweet morning pleasantries before going about her chores. For the early part of her day, her cheerfulness was sustained by the way he’d held his hand out for hers before she walked away from his bed, and the way their fingers had clung to one another’s for a moment when she finally had to.

Belle noticed Corporal Reyes’ great, framed bag full of knitting paraphernalia sitting in front of him on his bed when she first came onto the ward, but she’d thought nothing of it. It was far from an unexpected sight. Where Rummond had watches and cards to occupy him, Reyes had his knitting, and he wasn’t the only one on the ward who had picked up the hobby during the war. It wasn’t until she passed him for the third time in the course of her chores and saw him leaning over in the same position behind the bag that she grew curious.

After instructing Nurse Halloran in the proper way of applying ointment over sutures and applying bandages to a surgical site, Belle walked the long way around the other side of the ward to have a subtle look at what her patient was up to. She stepped quietly up behind his bed, peering around him.

In Corporal Reyes’ lap, cupped contentedly in his hands, there sat a participant in the hospital’s annual woodmice infestation. He stroked its tawny side with his thumb, and it appeared happy in his company. A large baking powder tin from the kitchen sat by, with holes pecked through the lid. Spilling out of the container was what she could only assume was a cloth from the washroom. 

Belle wondered how he’d gotten his hands on the tin itself; Zelda was quite the warden over her emptied food tins. She walked a little farther so that Reyes could catch her in his peripheral vision before she spoke.

“Oh, Anton.” She lay a hand on the Corporal’s shoulder. “Just be sure that it doesn’t get loose, then. There are traps being set out today.”

He looked a bit distressed at her news. “You’re g-going to k-kill them?”

Belle squatted down, moving her hand to rest on the edge of the bed. “Well, we can’t allow them to run rampant,” she told him gently. “They chew through things, and there are germs…”

“I d-did g-give him a b-bath in the sink,” Reyes whispered.

He frowned down at his new little friend, ever so carefully stroking a large fingertip over the top of its head. It blinked, bringing tiny toes up to its mouth. Belle didn’t think she imagined the tremble she saw in the Corporal’s chin.

“Have you named him?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Only c-caught him c-climbing up my knitting b-bag last night after d-dinner.” He looked askance at Belle. “I d-don’t suppose there’s a w-w-way you c-could _please_ not use t-traps to k-kill them? They’re innocent c-creatures. Just hungry and c-cold.”

The way he looked at her, holding the ball of brown fur with its great black eyes and little cup-shaped ears, she couldn’t tell him no.

Gardner came clattering through the ward doors with the kitchen trolley, and Reyes bustled the mouse back into its erstwhile home before the orderly could see it. Belle stood, patting him on the shoulder before going on.

She went to find Graham where he lay on his stomach on the other side of Commander Strand’s bed, placing one of the aforementioned spring-loaded traps. It only took him a moment before he shimmied back out.

“Graham…” she said as he got to his feet, beckoning him away from the beds. “I’ve something to ask.”

He followed, dusting his hands together. He’d need to change clothes, once he’d done with crawling around on the floors. There were a handful of tasks he was unfond of as an orderly, but this one was among the least.

“That look you have,” he said, “it never brings good things.”

Belle smiled up at him. “If you don’t mind, could you take the traps up again?”

His face fell, but he brought up a patient smile. “I’ve only just gotten them down…”

She glanced over at Reyes, finding him feeding his mouse from a small pinch of sausage off his breakfast tray. “I know, and I’m sorry to ask you to,” she said, turning back to Graham. “Corporal Reyes is upset by the idea of killing the woodmice.”

“I’m not fond of it, either, but unless you have a rodent-charming pipe, I don’t have another solution.” He crossed his arms over his chest, waiting.

“He’s found himself a pet,” she explained quietly. “And the idea of killing the rest-”

“That’s a wild mouse, Belle.”

“Perhaps you should tell that to the mouse who looks quite happy with being petted and cooed at.”

Graham looked over her head at the Corporal. He sighed. “What are we meant to do about them, then?”

“Last I knew, we had some live traps in the attic at home.” She wasn’t certain how _many_ of them there were, but surely they could make it work. “And I’m not sure the sound or knowledge of mice being snapped up in killing traps is best for this ward, anyway,” she went on, bolstering her argument.

Graham only looked at her for a moment. She saw the second he gave in.

“All right,” he said, dropping his arms by his sides. “Bring them in and I’ll set them. Soon as you can, though. They’ve chewed their way into General Spencer’s toiletry bag on the west ward, and it’s all hell in that wing over it.”

“Would that they’d gnaw away his nasty attitude,” Belle mumbled, and she received a snicker in return for it. She reached over, squeezing Graham’s upper arm - a spot she was fairly certain hadn’t been scrubbed across the floor - in gratitude. “I’ll bring them in as soon as I can get them found.”


	77. Healing Is Not a Science

The doctor had been in a mood to discuss nightmares. No single one in particular, simply in general. Nightmares, any and all.

Rummond was unsure about the entire line of discussion. They’d taken walks through certain nightmares before, but he didn’t see what difference it could make, going over them in this way. He couldn’t control what he dreamt.

“Can you tell me which nightmares recur?” Dr. Hopper asked near the beginning of the appointment. “Which come back to you again and again?”

“I do know what ‘recur’ means,” Rummond snipped, though not as sharply as he might have.

Therapy sessions were not, in general, a great boost to him as far as positive emotions went. He was a bit prickly in his awareness of that. He knew well that his spirit wasn’t exactly filled to the brim, but he’d averaged a solid ‘all right’ across the past three weeks - things such as nightmares or hallucinations and time with Neal or Belle being outliers and exceptions.

“Most of them,” he said, rolling a screw between his fingertips before placing it on the tool case. “Slight variations, but the same, for the most part.”

“And they all revolve around Germany, still?”

“Still and for a year and a half, now.”

Captain Gold’s bit of mild combativeness was a good thing, as far as Dr. Hopper was concerned. Far better than the sessions during which he could barely speak. He’d take this over the spectre that attended those appointments any day.

“You don’t have to go into detail, if you’d rather not, but would you feel comfortable telling me which recur most often?” If he could determine which nightmares plagued the Captain most, he thought it might provide him some insight into what else they needed to concentrate on.

“Forest,” Rummond told him shortly. They’d been through this. He focused his attention on the partially disassembled wristlet in front of him. “My boys. The Austrian boys. Collingwood and the mine. The dogfight.”

“Your last mission, you mean?” Dr. Hopper asked. “You have nightmares of being in the air? I don’t believe you’ve ever mentioned those in particular.”

Rummond shrugged. “A small part of the greater affliction, I assure you.”

The doctor stopped to observe his patient for a few moments. Captain Gold had more or less detailed everything that happened during that last mission over Germany. From takeoff to rescue, Dr. Hopper was somewhat certain. They’d discussed variants of nightmares on a good few occasions. The Captain had never spoken of dreams about the dogfight itself.

“How would you feel about talking that over today?” he asked.

Rummond cringed a little, twisting his mouth while he had his head down. “There’s nothing to talk about. I have the occasional nightmare. That’s the long and short of it.”

Dr. Hopper wouldn’t let go of it so easily. “So they’re perfectly faithful to the way it occurred? No deviations at all?”

“My plane goes down with the rest that died in the fight,” Rummond grit out.

The doctor was - perhaps wisely - quiet for another little while after his patient admitted as much. Then, more gently than he’d pushed for the initial information, he asked, “How often does that happen?”

Very slowly, very deliberately, Rummond removed a bridge screw and set it aside. “More than half.”

“And what is it that causes your plane to go down?”

“Bullets, usually. Gunfire to the engine.” He stared through the watch, a deep frown carving itself into his face. “Sometimes I wake choking on the smoke. Sometimes I hit the ground and burn. Other times, it’s one of the enemy planes slamming into me.”

Dr. Hopper remained silent as his patient went quiet. Captain Gold’s hands moved a little - not trembling, but as if he’d lost what he was doing.

“Something shears through me. Debris, propeller-” Rummond shook his head. “There’s blood and fire. I never knew you could feel pain in a dream, ’til those started.”

“Did they begin recently?” the doctor asked when it seemed the Captain would say no more on his own.

“First was… a few months ago, now, I suppose.”

“And never a nightmare of the dogfight before that?”

“It was always the-” Rummond blew out a short breath. He didn’t _want_ to talk about this, but these appointments rarely left him feeling anything more than drained, anyway. “The other parts of it, before. After we’d downed.”

Dr. Hopper considered the timing, thinking back. “You’ve spoken to me about how much you enjoyed flying. The freedom of it.”

He looked up at the doctor. “You remember that?” he asked in surprise before feeling entirely foolish. “Your notes.”

“I may have written it down at the time, but I don’t have those notes here,” the doctor said, tapping the end of his pen on the folder open in front of him. “I remember it quite clearly.”

“You treat upward of thirty patients - and more from the other wards on top of them - but you remember that conversation with me?”

“I have an excellent memory for my patients.” Dr. Hopper smiled. “I wonder if perhaps your nightmares of the dogfight might coincide with the time we talked about that?”

Rummond’s frown turned thoughtful, and he managed to busy his hands again with continuing the removal of the wristlet’s bridge. _Had_ that been when those nightmares in particular began? He couldn’t recall having one on an occasion before that day. “Why would that cause them, though? That talk?”

“Well, with dreams, I can’t be certain about-”

“If you had to hazard a guess,” Rummond interrupted.

For a moment, the doctor only looked at him. “Why don’t you tell me why you think it could be? I think you might have an idea about it.”

Rummond didn’t have far to go for the answer he’d figured on. The dogfight was the same as all the rest of it.

“It was my fault,” he murmured. He looked to the doctor, expecting some confirmation or rejection. The man only raised his eyebrows above his spectacles. “Guilt.”

Dr. Hopper gave him an encouraging nod. “I believe that’s a part of it - the insistence that all of the blame falls on yourself. Feeling that much guilt can cause all manner of problems.”

“Why did my mind wait until after _that_ conversation, though, to start doling them out?”

“Why do you think it did?” the doctor asked again.

Rummond thought. He’d gone back through that mission hundreds of times. He had corrected every possible mistake, every careless or cocky move that might have lent itself to the mission’s failure. If he’d only gotten them in the air a little earlier or later. If he had seen the enemy planes sooner. If he’d trained his boys better, or been quicker on the trigger. What difference could that single conversation have made?

Oh. The difference.

“I remarked on how I enjoyed it,” Rummond said.

It was the first time he’d given voice to how he adored being in the air since it happened. And afterward, he’d wondered how great a difference it might have made if he had concentrated wholly on the mission and less on how it felt to be up there.

Dr. Hopper sat back in his chair a bit. “You’re allowed to enjoy things, Captain. You are allowed to enjoy flying. The good feelings you attach to flying have nothing to do with what happened.”

“But how am I supposed to get into a cockpit again?” Rummond shook his head vehemently. “It’s bad enough with my feet on the ground. If I got up there, _happy_ to be up there, I- I-”

“Is it that you feel it would be a betrayal?” the doctor asked.

“It _would,”_ the Captain ground from between his teeth.

His patient declared it with such certainty that Dr. Hopper left it for the time being. Challenging Captain Gold there, when the belief was so deeply entrenched, might only make him dig his heels in more firmly at this point. They had yet to work out this blame of himself for the entire incident. Slowly but surely, though, they were getting there.

Instead, he took the discussion a bit adjacent. “Do you feel fear when you entertain the idea of flying again?”

“I know it isn’t likely there are Germans in the skies now,” Rummond said, well aware that he didn’t quite answer. “Not ones hunting us as they were.”

“No, there wouldn’t be,” the doctor agreed.

“I loved flying,” he went on miserably. “I do still love it. I want to be in the air. I want to feel the freedom, and the openness of the sky, the being in control of a machine going that fast… And I won’t ever get to again.”

Dr. Hopper waited. Captain Gold didn’t seem finished - his eyes scanned slowly, looking near the top of the window, though there wasn’t much to see of the sky unless one was looking for clouds. His expression was caught somewhere between wistful and pained when he tore his eyes away from the sliver of outdoors. After a few minutes, the doctor’s patience was rewarded.

“It does frighten me,” Rummond admitted quietly, bowing his head again to the watch he worked on. He’d confessed to so many other things in this room. What was one more? “I can’t put a finger on why, but it does.”

“How do you mean, you can’t put a finger on it?”

He sighed, looking down into the still mechanism. “I’m not afraid of the aeroplane, or the possibility of it going down. I can’t-” Rummond reached over, bumping the wristlet’s back cover where it lay on the tool case with his fingertip so that it was even with the bridge.

The silence went on long enough this time that Dr. Hopper opened his mouth to guide his patient back. Before he could, Captain Gold spoke again.

“It’s… the same feeling that makes it so I can’t eat brambles. And the way I know I don’t want to set foot in my own house again. It feels the same. It doesn’t feel like other fear. It’s as if it’s akin, but it-” He grimaced, struggling with the attempt to call the feeling _something._ He didn’t at all like not being able to name it properly.

“That manner of avoidance is common after trauma,” the doctor said. “And it’s understandable. You connect flying with the harm it caused you.”

Rummond leaned sideways into the sofa’s back cushions. It made sense, what Dr. Hopper said. He’d known there was a connection between certain of his aversions and situations he’d been in - he was that aware of himself, at least - but to know that it was _common?_ That it happened often enough to other people to be called a common thing? It was an odd sort of comfort.

“Perhaps it could be one of your eventual goals, to fly again?” Dr. Hopper suggested. “I don’t mean that it should be in any way soon. Only that it could be an idea to keep at the back of your mind as a possibility.”

“You’ve a spanner in that idea,” Rummond told him. “Even if I’d the backbone to get into a plane again, how am I meant to get near enough one to do it? I’d be laughed off any airfield I was so stupid as to set foot on.”

Belatedly, the Jenny that Corporal Nolan mentioned repairing occurred to him. Slim as chances were that the boy would let him near it, he wondered if it was feasible. If he’d any longer the mettle for it. A frown pinched his mouth again, and he concentrated on extracting a near stripped case screw.

Dr. Hopper glanced to the clock. Time was growing short on the session. Captain Gold seemed quite done with the topic for today. “Still, you might keep it in mind,” he said, his tone one of resigning the conversation. There was more he wanted to check in with his patient about before the hour was up, anyway. “How is your insomnia?”

“Well, it hasn’t gone anywhere.” The Captain flicked a look toward the desk. 

Dr. Hopper gave him a patient smile. “What I mean is, has it improved noticeably? Or worsened?”

“Improved, I suppose.” Rummond shrugged one shoulder a bit. “Some nights I get an hour or two uninterrupted. The odd half night’s sleep.”

“That sounds preferable to days on end of being unable to do so at all.”

“Mm, much.” He made a little huff of triumph as he removed the damaged screw. “I’ve… had a couple of good dreams in among the bad, as well,” he admitted.

“Oh?” the doctor said, intrigued as to what pleasant dreams were managing to break through. “Would you be willing t-”

“No.” Rummond colored a little, his ears burning with it. “No. Those would be private, thank you.”

Dr. Hopper nodded, watching his patient closely. The flush that crept into the Captain’s face was interesting, but he didn’t press for more. “Of course. If keeping the good dreams to yourself helps you, then by all means.”

“They’re nice,” Rummond said quietly. “Though I’m not sure how much help they are.”

The doctor gave him a sympathetic smile. “Would that dreams could heal?”

“Something needs to, short as time’s running.”

“Your funding, you mean? What your father has done in revoking it?”

After a look at the small table clock, Rummond began a careful process of putting his things away. “So you’ve heard,” he said. It seemed the doctor heard everything.

“A situation affecting one of my patients so significantly? Yes, I was informed.”

Rummond looked to him. “You haven’t mentioned it.”

“Nor have you,” Dr. Hopper replied in turn.

It was a fair remark. The deadline weighed on Rummond, but it wasn’t a thing he dwelled upon. Not _aloud,_ anyway. In his mind, on the other hand.

“Today marks a month I’ve got to get myself well enough for standing on my own two feet.”

“We’ve discussed this before - not rushing yourself,” the doctor reminded him.

“Aye. And that was before what I know now. Slow and steady is all well and good, when you’ve the money for it,” Rummond groused bitterly.

Dr. Hopper capped his pen and set it down. “Money or not, shell shock isn’t an injury that can be hurried. It takes the time that it takes.” He was rather sure that he was repeating itself, but apparently it bore talking over again.

“Belle has told me not to worry over it. But how can I _not?”_ Rummond picked up the slightly grimy bridge, turning it in the light for a moment before he tucked it along with the other parts removed into a fold made in the handkerchief, to be securely rolled up. 

“I happen to agree with Nurse French,” the doctor said. “Concentrate on getting better, not on some date you feel you must be well by.”

“I don’t _have_ that luxury,” Rummond said, realizing he was being a bit short. He wrapped the wristlet itself up in the handkerchief, as well, and set it next to the tool case, turning to face forward in his seat. He rubbed his palms over his knees, looking at Dr. Hopper a bit desperately. “Can’t you- I don’t know. Do something to make it happen more quickly?”

“I wish that I could. It would be helpful to a great many people, I’m sure, to be able to set a schedule on healing. Unfortunately, it’s quite a slow process, and not one we’ve been able to predict to such a fine degree.”

“Slow,” Rummond repeated, “and painful. And frustrating.”

“And painful, and frustrating,” Dr. Hopper agreed.

“There’s a boy - no one in my part of the ward, but I know enough of him - he was discharged evening before last. He admitted himself a couple of months after I arrived. You could hear him cry in the night for weeks after, and he’s well enough to leave now? How has he made so much progress in so short a time, when others on the ward have been here twice as long with no release in sight?” Rummond _loathed_ feeling jealous in any circumstances, but it was a special sort of irritation to find himself envying the health of another’s mind.

“I can’t comment on his situation, but Captain, everyone heals differently,” Dr. Hopper said, understanding a little more about his patient’s current behavior with this connection. “There’s something I would like for you to try to do; stop attempting to force it, and stop comparing your healing to others.”

“I’ve already been counseled with that, as well.”

The doctor grinned, pushing his glasses up. “Nurse French? She does have good instincts.” He closed his file full of shorthand-scribbled notes. “You are doing well. You’ve come a long way, Captain. Just because you aren’t yet at the finishing line doesn’t mean you haven’t made enormous strides, or that you won’t get there.”

“Perhaps. But not in time. You and I both know it.” Rummond looked down at his hands, where he frayed the end of his robe belt worse.

“Captain, has anyone spoken to you about hospital funding meant for the patients? Donations and aid meant specifically for servicemen on the different wards?”

Rummond shook his head, looking up at the doctor again.

“There are people who donate money to the hospital - funds meant to look after patients who couldn’t otherwise afford care. It _has_ happened that patients in need stayed on that funding.”

“I don’t want charity,” the Captain responded, a bit gruff with it.

Dr. Hopper sighed, hoping that Nurse French might encourage him to accept such funding, were it offered. “All right. We’ll see how things are going nearer the date, but if I may, I would still like to advise you to _try_ not to worry over it too terribly. Not yet.”

Rummond made a doubtful sound. He reached for his cane and got himself up from the sofa, taking the handkerchief-wrapped wristlet over to the doctor’s bookcase. He hesitated with his hand on the shelf for a few seconds.

“Belle invited me to Christmas,” he said finally. “To stay at her home on Christmas Eve, so I can be there with Neal the next day.”

“Did she?” he heard the doctor ask on a rising note from behind him, and he turned to see Dr. Hopper smiling brightly. “That’s wonderful. For all of you, I mean.”

“Is it?” Rummond asked.

“You have doubts?”

He was quiet for a moment, considering. “Not about going, really. I want to go. To spend so much time with my son and-” _And Belle._ He looked down at the doctor’s desk, eyes skimming over the various little attention-grabbers that occupied it. “I’ve not spent more than a few hours at a time with Neal since- since-”

“Since his mother took him?” Dr. Hopper provided after another pause had gone on for a bit, his voice gentle.

Rummond nodded. “What if I’m not ready, though? Staying away from the hospital for a full day and a half? What if something happens?”

“You’re worried that you might hallucinate or have a panic.”

“For instance.”

“Don’t worry,” the doctor said, and he smiled again in response to the sharp look that the Captain gave him for it. “I realize telling you that is like telling you not to breathe. How about… try to worry as little as possible? You _are_ doing well. You’ve been doing well for a number of weeks, now. Personally, at this point, I really have no reservations about you spending Christmas with your son and Nurse French’s family. On the contrary. I believe it would be _good_ for you.”

Rummond shifted his weight to his good leg and twisted his hand over the cane’s crook handle. “You do, do you?”

“I think it would be just fine,” Dr. Hopper assured him. “Nurse French will be right there, and the hospital is near enough, _if_ you happen to become in need of returning. Which I don’t believe you will.”

The doctor sounded sure of himself. And Belle was certainly confident enough about it. He hoped that they were both right, that he worried over nothing.

Rummond stopped next to the sofa for the tools before he made his way to the door, and Dr. Hopper came from behind his desk to see him out. Not having been escorted by Humbert this morning - and not for the past couple of weeks - he didn’t expect the orderly to be in the usual spot on the little bench when he stepped into the hallway.

Even the doctor gave a pleasantly surprised, “Graham…” upon seeing him.

Rummond eyed him. “I didn’t have a chaperone on the way in. Why do I rate one on the way out?”

“Aren’t we presumptuous? No one said I was here to see you. You can find your own way back just fine, Captain,” the orderly told him with a grin. “Matter of fact, I was waiting to ask Dr. Hopper here something.”

 _“Ah._ Of course. Silly me.” Rummond did his best to keep his smile from appearing too knowing as he turned to go.

“I’ll see you on Wednesday, Captain Gold,” the doctor said as Rummond headed off down the corridor.

He gave a wave of his hand without looking back. Almost immediately, he heard the office door click shut behind him. It would be near upon lunchtime, now. There to ask the doctor something, Humbert had claimed. Rummond grinned to himself. Well, he and Belle had the storage room…


	78. Ravages of War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt - _Anonymous said: “Was Captain Gold involved in any wars before WW1? That could be a prompt if you want it to be! Gold and Belle talking about it maybe?”_

It had been a couple of days since Graham had taken up the old traps and helped her to set out the ones not meant to harm. Belle explained the situation to Horatio, and between himself and Lumiere, they’d unearthed the live traps from the attic and loaded a box filled with them into the car for her. Made of spiralling wire, and much larger affairs, they weren’t as easily hidden as the spring-loaded ones. She couldn’t outfit the entire hospital with them, but she could do so for their ward.

They’d caught perhaps a dozen mice, thus far. Graham had gone every day on his lunch break to release them, taking the groundskeeper’s rickety Daimler and driving out as far from the hospital as he could to a field for them. Said groundskeeper had patched two new mouse holes, one located in the west supply closet and one in an unused office space in the south wing. After scouring the hospital, it seemed those were the only ones to be found, and the mouse population did seem to be getting smaller.

Belle paused in her trap checking with the intention of looking in on Rummond. He’d sat quietly much of the morning, but he had somehow been drawn into talking with Jezek and Knight from the row behind him. So infrequently did Rummond join conversations, she couldn’t help but indulge her nosiness. 

Jezek was doing a good deal of dwelling on his experiences in the Boer Wars, she discovered, and she stayed nearby to make sure that it didn’t cause upset. It helped that Lieutenant Hargreaves was in with Dr. Whale over some digestive troubles; Belle sent Nurse Halloran off after a fresh set of linens for his bed to give her an excuse.

“Kitchener stuck his ass in and he started cutting the other side off from food, burning crops and farmsteads and killing livestock, putting women and children in camps and just letting ’em die. I didn’t sign up for that kind of thing,” Leroy said gruffly, frowning as he tossed a piece of toast crust back onto the breakfast tray he hadn’t allowed Quinn to retrieve. 

Knight, having still been in short trousers when the Second Boer War was fought, had heard little of what the Bombardier was talking about. He didn’t appear to like what he heard, however. 

“Let them die?” the Corporal asked, frowning over at the next bed. “Purposefully?”

“May as well have been,” Leroy grumbled. “Neglect. Withholding food from families with men still fighting. Cruel bastard.” He looked at Knight, catching the look of distress on the boy’s face, and decided to leave off that particular grievance. “’Ey, Gold, you’re one of them’s long in the tooth. You see Africa?”

Rummond sat sideways on his bed so that he could look over the head of it, though most of his attention was on the mending he worked on in his lap. “South Africa,” he answered. “In a manner of speaking. Never did set actual foot on African soil. Saw a great deal of the water around it, though.”

“Lucky,” Jezek declared.

Rummond cleared his throat, and Belle turned to look as she recognized the sound of warning. She found Corporal Knight’s manner rather wilted.

Ruby was off the ward, running down to the kitchen to beg something sweet off Zelda because she hadn’t eaten breakfast. It wouldn’t usually be the least bit of difficulty to look after Ruby’s beds along with her own. Jezek was simply having one of those days.

“The boy who handled my ammunition belts on the field, he vanished after the siege at Kimberley,” Leroy said, his voice growing less gruff and more sad. “Lost a leg and moved off somewhere in Italy, afraid to go home to his wife.”

“I can understand how he must’ve felt.” Knight squirmed, pulling at his covers and not looking at his bunkmate. “Haven’t spoken to my wife since I was injured.”

 _“Knight!”_ Jezek barked, and the Corporal startled. He fixed the younger soldier with a sharp stare. “It’s been two years since losing that arm, you said! You didn’t send any word to her? The girl’s either searching for you or mourning! You don’t think _your wife_ deserves _something?”_

Rummond couldn’t agree with what the Corporal had done, but he thought he could understand why the young man had. There were a good many servicemen, the younger the more likely, who simply didn’t go home to their sweethearts once the war was finished. More often than not the reasoning was to save their girlfriends or wives the decision of staying with a broken man. It was rarely an action that went over well with the women left behind.

Knight had scooted himself to the far edge of his bed, and Belle decided that it was time to step in. She left Nurse Halloran to finish the pillow cases. 

“Leroy, please find something to do quietly for a while?” she said as she passed his footlocker. He looked scolded, at that, and nodded.

She squatted next to Corporal Knight’s bed to talk to him, attempting to calm him, until Ruby returned and came over to tend her section again. Ruby would give Jezek a scolding in earnest when she sorted everything out.

Rummond was darning a place near the end of his robe belt, where the fabric had been worn nearly through on one side. His nervous fingers had plucked the stitching open and the threads apart over the last few months, and he was repairing it as best he could. He held the needle in the corner of his mouth while he measured out another length of black thread from one of the slender cards in his old RFC sewing kit. 

Belle remembered seeing the housewife kit among his things when she’d helped him pick up the contents of his bedside table drawer, but she’d never caught him putting it to use. She’d seen many of them over the years, but few as well-kept as this one. Swatches of fabric held needles and safety pins, some with buttons still caught on them for safekeeping. A small pair of snips resided along with the thread cards in a pocket on one end, and she could see the tip of a leather thimble sticking out, as well. His family name had been done in white stitchwork on the flap - simple stitches, but careful and clear. 

He finished the bit of darning and moved on to repairing the tip of the belt, folding the frayed, open ends in. It didn’t escape her how steady his hands were today.

“You sew very well,” she observed.

Rummond smiled, glancing up as she sat next to him. “My Aunties taught me.”

Catching a tiny nip of fabric with his needle, he continued the invisible stitch into the end of his belt. He sewed it carefully, securely, trying to make certain that there wasn’t a bit of loose thread or rough fabric for his fingernails to catch when his hands grew restless.

“They insisted that I would need the skill,” he said. “They weren’t wrong. I’ve sewn on more buttons and repaired more bits of uniform than I can recall. Not all of them my own.”

Seeing the ease with which Rummond had talked to Jezek and Knight - though it had taken some prompting - Belle figured it mustn’t be _too_ sensitive a subject. Still, she felt more comfortable asking for herself rather than assuming and causing him trouble.

“It doesn’t bother you to talk about the Boer Wars?”

Rummond shrugged. “Only served in the second. And it’s been…” He huffed a laugh upon realizing just how long it had been. “Near twenty years ago, now.”

It was still a _bit_ of a stun to hear him speak of such long stretches of time in his life. His age was easy to forget. “You were still in the Navy at that point.”

“Aye, and for thirteen years after.” He smiled up at her.

“What was the name of your ship?” she asked, hoping to hear more since he was willing to talk of it. “The one you served on then?”

“The Magicienne.” A faraway look crossed his face, though it cleared quickly. “Served less than a year on her. I was reassigned when the Boxer Uprising came about. She was a good ship, though.”

“You never set foot on the continent?”

“Managed not to. The first time we made port, I went on deck ready to go out, and it was a quick decision to go right back to my quarters.”

“Something made you not want to go,” she surmised, curious as to what could have made him avoid spending his leave off the ship. Most sailors clambered for the open air after great stretches at sea.

His nose wrinkled a little. “Port was crawling with hansoms and rickshas from the _suikerhuisies.”_

Belle shook her head. She had a half dozen languages under her belt, but Afrikaans was not among them. “From the…?”

“Sugar houses.”

“Sugar houses?” she repeated, understanding not much more with the translation.

“Oh. Ah…” He hesitated in his discomfort with an explanation before murmuring quietly, “Brothels.”

 _“Oh.”_ Well, that made sense, she supposed.

“There was a great deal of crowding around and sending out transportation to bring sailors back to the houses. Boys on leave-”

“Tend to be a goldmine?”

“More or less. I didn’t want a part in it.” He shrugged again. “I spent my leaves reading and sleeping, playing parlor games with the few other lads who didn’t go ashore.”

Belle smiled as he finished with the belt and took his snips from their little pocket to cut the thread. He sounded as if he’d been such a good boy, and even from so many years removed, she felt a bit proud of him for that.

“You came up with the parts for Anton’s watch?” she asked, nodding to the pocketwatch and tools on his table.

“Not yet.” Rummond slid the needle back into its place on one of the fabric swatches, loosely coiling the attached remainder of thread so that it wouldn’t go to waste. “The boy’s sent away for the ones in need of replacing.” 

Belle grinned. ‘Boy,’ he called the thirty-some-odd year old man. “What more can you do for it without them?” she asked, reaching for a loose tool she’d never seen before. Well, that wasn’t quite true. She’d seen hammers, of course, but never so delicate a one.

“The case has to be pecked back into serviceable shape. It won’t take much to repair.” He tied the strings around his folded kit and tossed it aside on the bed, giving her his full attention.

She held the tool out to him. “A jeweler’s hammer,” he answered in response to her questioning look. “Dr. Hopper borrowed it from a watchmaker friend of his for me.”

Belle was more than pleased to know that he and Dr. Hopper were friendly outside of strict doctor-patient cooperation. “How very nice of him.” 

“It was,” he agreed, patting the small, steel head of the hammer against his palm.

“Nurse French?” Commander Strand called from across the aisle.

“I’ll come back,” she told Rummond. She gave him a smile, and the one he gave her in return was more resigned. 

“The hazards of falling in love with a nurse,” he whispered back to her, tugging gently at her sleeve before she stood to see to another of her patients.

Rummond watched her go, setting the hammer on top of his book again. He was waiting until lunchtime came around to work on Reyes’ watch, so that the sounds of reshaping the case would be drowned in the clattering of trays and plates that came along with it.

Strand asked for a cup of tea and some drawing paper, if they happened to have it. He’d run out, and apparently he itched to put pencil to paper. It often kept him happy and occupied, and Nurse Halloran was more than willing to go and see whether Mal would spare a few sheets for him while Belle went to fetch him something to drink.

Returning, she found someone heading into the east wing just ahead of her. His size didn’t fully register until she was approaching the end of the corridor, when he seemed taller and taller the nearer she got. At the sound of her shoes, he turned to look, and he opened the ward door for her.

She didn’t think she’d ever see another person of greater height than Corporal Reyes with her own two eyes. But here, walking onto her ward, there came a man nearly a head taller. She didn’t even come up to his shoulder, she realized as she stepped past - his head alone appeared as though it might make up two of her own. She thought he might have been tall enough even to touch the rafters, with a bit of a stretch of his arm. 

Belle wondered if she should - what? What could she do if he meant to cause trouble?

“Hello,” she said up to him, smiling as she stood blocking the doorway. “May I help you find someone?”

She couldn’t help the feeling of relief she had when the smile he gave her was awkward and not the least bit an attempt at charming his way past. Thank heavens he was friendly, because he could likely toss them all out the window two at a time.

The man looked well over her head, and she could tell by the look on his face when he found who he was looking for.

His voice was deep and resonant, and his accent slow but spectacularly Welsh when he told her, “’M looking for Rummond Gold, there.”

She turned to Rummond, who - along with anyone else in the front half of the room - had heard. He looked up with an expression of not unpleased surprise. 

“Dove?” he said, a smile breaking wide across his face.


	79. The Weather Up There

Belle stepped out of the doorway to allow Rummond’s visitor past her. He stopped to take a wooden chair from the stacks of them nested to the left of the ward doors, and he carried it over much the way Belle carried her purse - as though it were nothing at all. Shaking herself from her stare, she went on to take Strand’s tea to him. 

The man Rummond had so cheerfully called Dove placed the crisp, immaculately brushed black bowler that he held in the empty spot at the back corner of the bedside table before he sat. He dwarfed the chair a bit, and it creaked when he placed himself in it.

If there turned out to be trouble and Rummond needed Dr. Hopper later, Belle wasn’t certain what she could do. The doctor would be out of town for the next few days - he’d finally had his mother placed in a hospital for the elderly, and he meant to see her settled in. Rummond’s visitors were so often of the unpleasant variety, she tended to form immediate suspicions toward anyone who came in asking for him.

Rummond still smiled, though. He appeared perfectly at ease with this man who was at the very least twice his size. She decided that he must be all right, and though she kept a bit of a distance to allow him his visitor, she didn’t stray too far. Just in case.

She was standing next to Commander Strand, half observing him as he sketched Nurse Halloran from across the aisle and half keeping her eye on Rummond, when she heard Nurse Mills’ distinct footsteps approach her from behind.

“Unless I’m mistaken, Nurse French, this is _not_ visitor’s day.”

Belle resisted the first replies that flew through her mind. She turned on her heel to face the head nurse, clasping her hands together down the front of her apron. “If you wish to inform _him_ of that fact, well then, Nurse Mills, you go right ahead.”

The head nurse’s upper lip began to curl as if she wanted to impart some vicious remark, and Belle took pleasure in the way her superior shifted an intimidated look at what so far seemed to be a perfectly harmless stranger. She was rather certain that he could shake off any orderlies who might be sent at him.

“See that the visit remains a short one,” the head nurse snapped. “Such unscheduled interruptions aren’t healthy for the patients.”

Belle glared after Nurse Mills, waiting until the woman was out of earshot before mumbling to herself, “And you’re _so_ concerned for the patients….” She heard Commander Strand give an entertained snicker in response.

Rummond’s eyes followed the head nurse until she was off the ward, and he had to wonder what she was attempting to stir up. It was a rare day if she weren’t prodding a sharp claw at someone. When he looked across at Belle, her gaze shifted away from the door to meet his, and he realized she’d been watching to be sure that Nurse Mills left, as well. He rested a hand on the blanket next to him, turning it to beckon her over. She smiled, and his own smile in response was by now automatic.

“Belle,” he said as she stepped around his footlocker, adoration making its way clearly into his voice. “Dove, this is Nurse Belle French. She’s done most of the taking care of me here. Belle, this is Heddwyn Dove, an old friend.”

“I’m charmed, Nurse French,” the man said with a smile and a look that she could only describe as knowing. He inclined his head a little in a gesture of respect.

Belle nodded in response. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Dove.”

“Sit, sit,” Rummond whispered up to her.

She took a place near her usual one, though keeping a good foot and a half between herself and Rummond. A friend this Mr. Dove may be, but she wasn’t quite sure about being so obvious in their intentions toward one another in front of him.

“Dove was my valet in my father’s house when I was a boy. After we’d moved across to England proper,” Rummond clarified, pointing between himself and the man who towered even seated. 

Belle watched how Rummond moved. He had become more spirited as time passed in the wake of his most recent downswing, feeling better again, and it was lovely to witness. She’d noticed in the newsreels how intensely he talked with his hands, and she thought she’d love to see them take wing so well again.

Dove shook his head. “It’s been a lifetime since I was this one’s valet, hasn’t it.”

“He turned out more friend than staff,” Rummond told her. “Barely seen hide nor hair of him in years. Well, hide, at least,” he went on with a bit of a smirk.

The last time Rummond had seen him was the day he dragged himself to his father’s house, just before admitting himself. They’d barely spoken, the shape he was in, and he’d been too humiliated at the time to tell Dove where he was headed.

His remark earned him an unimpressed look from Dove, which only served to make his smirk broaden and his head wag in amusement. He looked to Belle to find her grinning between himself and his visitor.

“I’d have been by to see you, if I’d known you were here,” Dove told him, more serious in tone.

“How _did_ you find out?” Rummond was reasonably certain that his father wouldn’t have told anyone who had a chance of lending any measure of kindness. 

“Malcolm,” Dove said, the name heavily laden with distaste as it formed on his lips. “Heard him bawling at someone on the telephone in his study about ‘paying that hospital to keep tabs’ on you.”

Rummond’s smile faltered. “Does he know you’re here?”

“He does _not.”_ Dove huffed a breath through his nose. “Hasn’t been entitled to know my comings and goings for a good month now. Started calling around hospitals when I left, asking after you.”

“He fired you?”

“I quit. Malcolm’s had to replace the full staff again over the last couple of years, he has.”

“Some things stay the same,” Rummond grumbled. Piecemeal, his father’s staff had walked out and been replaced with some frequency. Dove was the only one to stay on, enduring far more than he should have had to from the bastard.

Dove shifted in the chair, making it creak again. “There’s only so much a person can stand, and I got a gullet full, didn’t I.”

“Good.” Rummond frowned, curious as to what could make _Dove_ throw his towel in. “At last. You aren’t out of work, though?”

“Found a place with a family out in Maidstone.” Dove shook his head. “Good people. Not the sort you might find drunk after the maid quits because she was groped for the fifth time and must fish from the garden fountain before they’ve drowned themselves.”

“You’d’ve done everyone a favor if you’d left him there,” Rummond bit off.

“One cannot turn time back for repairs, unfortunately.” 

“More’s the pity.”

The look that Dove gave him was a sympathetic one. “How are you doing here?”

He shrugged. “Better than I was. Still very much a work in progress.”

“He’s doing quite well, actually,” Belle said, unable to resist cutting in. “He’s come a long way.”

“That’s good to hear from someone who can see him better’n he sees himself.” Dove smiled over at her.

Rummond moved his hand, and she felt the warmth of his palm at the small of her back for only a moment before it left her.

He looked down at the book closed in his lap. “You’ve heard all about it, then?”

“Gleaned bits here and there from lies and whole cloth, isn’t it.” Dove watched him, going on when Rummond didn’t respond. “I know which parts to take and which to leave. You’ll tell me, yourself, someday. Hm?”

“Perhaps,” was all Rummond would allow.

Dove nodded. “Perhaps.”

Rummond took a long, slow breath, determined to get away from the subject they’d strayed into. “I got my boy back,” he said, looking from Belle to Dove with a smile.

“I’d heard as much. I’m glad of it.” Dove sat back, his posture transforming into something not _quite_ so stiffly formal. The back of the chair gave a squeak of wood and screws, and Belle wasn’t sure how she might react if it collapsed beneath him.

“His mother sent a barrister ’round with divorce papers.” Rummond decided not to describe the entirety of events surrounding _that._ He didn’t want to talk about it, really, and he wasn’t certain what Dove might do if he knew the whole of it.

“I heard of that, too.”

Rummond gave him an exasperated look. _“Well,_ why should I talk, then? You’ve all the news.”

“Can’t help having it, much as Malcolm spouts off at the mouth.”

“Jesus,” Rummond swore. He wondered who all across the country knew every bit of what should have remained his private business by now. He made a perturbed, grumbling noise, taking his book and tossing it into the pillow on the other side of him.

“Your hair’s gotten too long,” Dove said right out, since he was being eyed, anyway.

“My hair is just fine.” Rummond gave him a wry look. “There’s a bit of a dearth of barbers on the ward, here.”

“You’re in dire need of one.” Dove sat forward and reached across out of old habit to flick the ends of the hair falling over Rummond’s ear.

Not expecting it, Rummond flinched, then scowled at himself for it. He could feel himself being watched from two directions. Belle’s hand went to his arm - that touch, at least, he’d seen coming. 

“All right?” Dove asked gently, and Rummond nodded. “What do you think about that haircut? Up to it, are you?”

Rummond looked up at him, nodding again. “Suppose I do need it a bit.”

Dove turned to Belle. “Nurse French, may I have your permission to take your patient out into the air?”

“I suppose you may,” she answered with a grin. “I don’t think it’s a bad idea.”

“Could you spare a towel? And a good, sharp scissor, please?” he asked.

“Easily done.” Belle gave Rummond’s arm a squeeze before she headed off to ask whether Ruby had a pair, not wanting to have to track down Nurse Nolan for the supply closet key.

“You’re mad. It’s freezing,” Rummond said. He pointed to his toiletry bag and, without needing to be asked, Dove handed it to him so that he could sort his comb out from it.

“Bah. You think I would let you freeze?” Dove dismissed, glancing over his shoulder to watch Belle as she stepped into the washroom to fetch a towel. With a silent smile, he looked back at Rummond, who yet again had his eyes on the nurse.

Rummond flicked a look at Dove before looking back to Belle, then quickly to Dove again when he realized he was being observed. “What?”

“As I live and breathe…” Dove rumbled, his smile stretching a little wider.

“Don’t,” Rummond warned.

Dove held a hand up in surrender.

“There’s a paved area off the north corridor,” Belle told Dove as she returned, handing the towel and scissors to him. “The building shields it from the wind, for the most part. It might be the easiest place.”

“It does sound ideal.” Dove stood, waiting for Rummond to get his cane. “Where to is it?”

“When you near the end of the east corridor, just before you get to the foyer, turn right. There’s a short hallway through the second door on your right again, and the door at the end takes you outside,” she explained, providing directions and gesturing toward the front of the ward.

Rummond winced as he moved to put his feet into his slippers. Belle - noticing, of course - gave him a look of questioning concern. He attempted to wave it off. 

“Your leg is bothering you today?” she asked, taking a step toward him. Her hand came to rest cupped over his shoulder.

“No, no, my leg is fine. Fine as I can expect,” he said, reaching across his chest to lay his hand over hers. “A stitch in my belly. Sat bent over mending too long.”

She nodded, but she turned to Dove. “Don’t keep him outdoors _too_ long. It’ll be good for him to get out, but it is quite cold,” she told him, feeling a surge of protectiveness.

“Yes, ma’am,” he deferred, nodding deeply. “Only long enough to make your Rummond a bit less unkempt.”

Rummond gave him a sharp look, but Belle gave him a smile, and the remark was worth it all the way around.

“I am _not_ unkempt,” Rummond argued as Dove put his hat back on, the far larger man catching his chair beneath the widest back rail and carrying it along.

Belle caught Nurse Halloran as she was on her way toward Commander Strand, who had a bit of a scramble to put his sketch away. “Watch the beds? I need to step out for just a little while.”

“Of course.” Ariel nodded

“Be careful of Nurse Mills, if she comes back in. She’s snappish, today,” Belle cautioned her, and she gestured between them toward Strand, so that Ariel could see and the Commander couldn’t. “And for God’s sake, talk to that man.”

Nurse Halloran’s face fell a bit. “I’m _trying.”_

She gave Ariel’s arm an encouraging pat and went to catch up with Rummond. There wasn’t far to catch up, as it turned out. Dove was pacing himself so that it wasn’t necessary for Rummond to hurry, and they were only just approaching the door when Belle made it into the north wing. She slowed, staying back a bit until they’d made it outdoors so that she didn’t intrude.

Belle watched them from the doorway. It was near freezing, and she wished she had her coat, but she wasn’t cold enough to be willing to go all the way back to get it. The man ushering Rummond out onto the little patio seemed perfectly nice - far less stoic and severe than she’d imagined when she saw him heading onto the ward - but she’d grown too wary of Rummond’s visitors to leave them perfectly alone.

Without a word, Dove shucked his overcoat and placed it around Rummond’s shoulders before he sat down. Belle found herself a bit surprised to see him willingly accept it. Dove _had_ said he’d served as Rummond’s valet, but it occurred to her that this man had actually taken care of him at an age when he was likely in considerable need of it. Or as far as he had allowed himself to be taken care of, at least. The thought endeared him to her a little more.

“We’re being chaperoned,” Dove said quietly, draping the towel around Rummond to keep trimmings out of his clothes.

“She’s keeping an eye on _you,”_ Rummond told him. “You’d best behave, or she’ll toss you out, herself.”

“I’ve no doubt there.” Dove gave a rumbling laugh. “Nurse French, eh?”

Rummond responded with a simple and careful, “Aye.”

“She seems very nice. Fiery.” He began to pull the comb through Rummond’s hair. “She likes you. More than, isn’t it?”

“And I like her. More than.”

“She’s a better fit than your boy’s mam. I wasn’t surprised when that went pear-shaped.”

It took a moment for Rummond to sort out words for a response. He didn’t want to talk about Milah. “Neal’s all manner of taken with her. Loves her like mad.”

“And you?”

Rummond sighed. A smile bloomed across his face. “I love her like mad, as well.”

A heavy hand rested on his shoulder, weighing there for only a second. Dove patted it before going back to his task.

Rummond closed his eyes and tucked his hands inside the coat. For an instant, he felt like a boy again, Dove standing what seemed ten feet over him, combing and pulling gently at sections of his hair, scissors _snick_ ing around his head.

“Don’t cut it short. I don’t want it cut short, Dove,” he reminded.

“And what’ll you do, if I did? Come after mine?”

With a snort, Rummond started to look up to remark on Dove’s own slick scalp, and with one large hand, Dove turned his head right back where it was.

“Keep at it, you’ll lose yourself an ear, won’t you?” He trimmed another bit before reassuring Rummond, “I’m not cutting it short.”

Rummond grinned, but he remained still. A hank of hair lopped too short for his squirming was far more understandable for an eleven-year-old than for a man his age. It didn’t take as long as haircuts had seemed to then. Before he knew it, Dove was checking through to be sure he hadn’t missed anything.

 _“Dyna ti bach,”_ he said as he finished up.

It was one of few exchanges between the two men that Belle could hear since they’d begun their quiet conversation. Their playful gibes had been louder than anything else. She didn’t know what it meant, but it made Rummond cross his arms and grin.

“I’m not a child, Dove.”

Dove made a dismissive sound. “Ehh. You’ll always be _bach_ Rum Gold to me.”

“Everyone is wee to you, though, isn’t it?” Rummond said, imitating the great Welshman’s long vowels and pattern of speech the same way he’d needled him when they were both far younger, when such teasing had often ended in Dove holding him down with one hand while he near pished himself laughing.

“You know good and well what I mean.” Dove gave his hair a good muss for his cheek.

Belle heard a laugh come from Rummond that made her heart skip to hear. She wanted to make him laugh like that, and she set the goal for it. 

Combing Rummond’s hair again to repair the ruffling he’d inflicted, Dove said, “Now you look _a bit_ less like a sheepdog.”

The corner of Rummond’s mouth quirked in irritated amusement, and he ducked out from under Dove’s hands. Dove took the towel away and the hair snippings with it, shaking them onto the grass.

“I still have your pocketwatch,” he said, folding the towel. “Brought it along, in case you wanted it, now.”

Rummond stood, shrugging out from under the overcoat. “Keep it for now, if you will? I’ll come and fetch someday.”

Belle watched as he exchanged Dove’s overcoat for the things she’d brought for them. Dove reached around behind Rummond, giving the back of his head an affectionate pat. Rummond pulled a face, but he smiled.

“I’ll be back around to see you again,” Dove promised. 

Rummond nodded, hoping very much that he would. It wasn’t something he’d set his heart on, though. Dove had a job as a proper valet, now, after all. It didn’t leave a great deal of opportunity for traipsing out to waste on him what little time Dove would have to himself.

Dove lifted a hand in farewell toward the door where Belle stood, and she gave him a wave in return before he headed off to walk the long way around to the front of the hospital. 

“Don’t you look nice?” she said, smiling as the men parted ways and Rummond walked toward her. Her fingers itched to run through the ends of his freshly neatened hair.

He shrugged, though he returned her smile. “It’s only a trim.”

She stepped back so that he could move past her, and she shut the door against the cold as soon as he was inside. “Here, let me see.”

Rummond turned to her, and she lifted her hands to thread them through his hair, lingering with the ends held close between her fingers. His eyes closed for a moment, and she reveled in the expression that took his face under her attention. The back of his hair still curled over the collar of his robe, and the sides were still long enough to tuck back. Dove hadn’t taken much off at all. He’d only snipped away the bits that were beginning to appear neglected.

“You do look nice,” Belle told him, moving her hands from his hair to his cheeks.

They were cold, and she kept her hands there to give him a little warmth. His lips and nose were, as well, when she leaned up to kiss him, taking advantage of still standing in the hallway with doors shut at both ends of it. She gave him a steady look to make certain he wasn’t shivering, glad that he hadn’t gotten chilled.

Belle took the towel from him, folding it over once more and tucking it under her arm to place in the laundry, and she dropped the scissors into her pocket. “I suppose we should go back. I told Nurse Halloran that I wouldn’t be long.”

He gave a soft hum of disappointment when her hands left him, but he nodded and followed her out the other end of the hallway.

“My father hired Dove as a… watchdog, of sorts,” Rummond began on the walk back to the ward, voluntarily and without needing a nudge into it. “Apparently he didn’t take into account how one’s personality might differ from their outward appearance.” He snorted softly. “Dove is a kind soul with a frightening presence - a good combination, it turned out.”

“He took care of you,” Belle said, encouraging him to continue.

“He doesn’t look it, but he was near ten years older than I was, when he was hired on. He was intended to be some manner of intimidation and brute force over me. My father tried to make threats with him. It worked for perhaps a day and a half, ’til I figured Dove for a good egg.” Rummond’s grin faded and he rubbed absently at his stomach, his voice quieter when he spoke again. “He gathered me off to the corner of the kitchen and patched me up after run-ins with my father more times than I can count.” 

Belle’s opinion of Dove moved quickly from tentative to grateful for the man’s existence in Rummond’s life. She reached for his hand, and it clasped readily around hers. “Tell me more about him.”


	80. Pain Insists

“Rummond,” Belle said, resting a hand on his arm over top of the blankets. She received no more than a soft grunt in response.

For the entirety of her Wednesday through Thursday shift, she’d felt as though he behaved oddly - more reticent and still than he had been in weeks. She worried at first that he might be headed for a downswing. This quiet had a different feeling to it, though.

He’d gone to bed just fine, she thought. By the time it was light out enough to see his hand in front of his face, he’d been sitting up and leaning over his book. She had attributed his being bent over the pages more closely than usual to the lack of light, but he’d remained so even after she turned the electrics on. When she asked, he had given her a smile she’d known right away as forced, replying that he was fine, only tired. 

She sat with him through breakfast, while he poked less than halfheartedly at his plate as she attempted to draw more than a syllable or two at a time from him. Once again, he’d assured her that he was just fine. It was a busy day, but she watched him closely as she could. Well before noon, Rummond had put his distractions away and curled up beneath the blankets again, his back to the door. Though he had been sleeping better, he still didn’t sleep what she would call _well_ \- at best the improvement was marginal - and so she’d intended to leave him be to rest. Then he’d turned his lunch tray away completely, and she resolved to get more than a ‘fine’ out of him.

“Are you asleep?” she asked, and he gave a hum she’d learned to interpret as a negative. “Have you _been_ asleep?”

“No,” he said, the single word sounding strained.

“Here, look at me.” Belle tugged at his arm, trying to urge him to turn. 

He resisted her, his body tense rather than soft, as it usually was when he rested. He’d been in a good frame of mind. She was certain of it. But more and more, she was equally certain that something was _wrong._

She folded his covers back and lay her hand on his upper arm again, and she could feel how alarmingly warm he was through his gown. “Rummond, sit up.”

He pressed his face into his pillow, muffling a groan, and braced himself for the attempt. Gritting his teeth, he shifted. A knife twisted in his guts as he pushed himself upright.

If she’d just let him alone for the rest of the day, he could have waited it out and she’d never have known. He had slept off or worked through plenty of aches and pains in his life. He was certain this one would go away, if he could only have a bit longer to simply be still.

Belle watched him closely, catching the way he guarded his midsection as he sat up. When at last he looked at her, she found his face flushed and his eyes glassy with fever. The possibilities raced quickly through her thoughts.

“You still have that ‘stitch’ in your belly, you said it was?” she asked, sitting next to him. She located the thermometer at the bottom of her apron pocket and unscrewed the fountain pen-like lid from its case, shaking the mercury down before she held it up for him.

He nodded, allowing her to place it under his tongue. His arm held near him as though he wanted to wrap it around himself, but couldn’t quite.

Belle gave him an appraising look. “And it’s worse?”

“It is.” He winced in expectation of an unhappy response. “Been worsening steadily since Tuesday. It’s moved, though.”

“The pain moved?” She reached over, gently guiding his arm aside.

Rummond nodded again, and she pulled the blanket away from his lap. He watched as her hand somehow found the precise spot. She touched him with very little pressure, but it _hurt,_ and a low whimper broke in his throat.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and she took the thermometer from his mouth. His temperature was up a good bit, but not dangerously. She would have to keep an eye on it. Replacing the slender piece of glass in its case, she caught the clip onto the top of her apron, to remind herself to sterilize it.

“Dr. Whale will need to make sure, but…” Belle sighed, sitting back and rubbing at her forehead. “I think it’s your appendix.”

“Oh, no it isn’t!” he said, leaning over a bit as a stab of pain went through his abdomen. He hissed, crushing a profanity before it made its way out of his mouth.

Her face drew in concern, and she rested a hand on his arm. “Have you had it out? Because I don’t remember seeing a scar in the area.”

“No,” he admitted. “But- I didn’t come here for _that_ sort of doctoring!”

“Well, I suppose it’s a good thing you’re here and that it was caught, then, isn’t it?” 

Ruby came onto the ward, and Belle caught her attention with a wave, bringing her over. “Would you mind fetching Dr. Whale? Tell him it can’t wait.”

“Sure thing.” Nurse Lucas glanced from Belle to Rummond, who had given up on hiding his discomfort. “I’ll bring him back, myself.”

“I don’t want surgery, Belle,” he said once the other nurse turned to go.

She gave him a sympathetic smile, but she shook her head. “I’m afraid there’s nothing to help that. Not if I’m right.”

“You’re mistaken,” he said, doing his level best to convince himself. “I’m well past the age for it.”

“Adults develop appendicitis all the time,” she told him. He shifted a worried look up at her and away again. “We’ll see what the doctor says, though.”

Rummond paled, swallowing hard. “I’m going to be sick,” he managed to croak, and by the time he was, Belle had gotten the bedpan from beneath his bunk and had it in his hands. Empty as he was, not much came up.

Belle had hurried away, and he was still holding tightly onto the basin when she returned with a cup of cool water.

“All done?” she asked gently. She touched his cheek, and the backs of her always warm fingers felt cool on his skin.

“Think so,” he murmured down at the bedpan, his breath shuddering. “For now.”

She waited until he’d rinsed his mouth, and she took the basin away, returning a few minutes later with a new bedpan and a damp washcloth. The cloth felt far colder than he knew it really was as he pressed it to his face. After a moment, Belle took it and folded it to lay across the back of his neck, the cold sending a shiver through him.

The fever made his head swim, and he was only aware of an occasional stab through his insides, the burning of his eyes, and Belle staying nearby, until Dr. Whale seemed to appear out of nowhere.

“What have we here?” the doctor asked, and Rummond was more than content to let Belle handle it.

“Right lower quadrant pain,” she began, standing to speak. “Absent appetite, vomiting, fever, lethargy…”

Dr. Whale leaned over him. “My, isn’t that familiar? Let me see, here.”

The doctor set a hand on his patient’s shoulder to have him sit up a bit straighter. He went to the same place Belle had figured on, palpating carefully around it. Rummond’s face pulled in pain. It hurt a good deal more when the doctor applied pressure, but it wasn’t until he released it that Rummond downright yelped.

He pushed Dr. Whale’s hand away, openly glaring at the man.

“Acute appendicitis,” the doctor said, and Rummond couldn’t tell whether he addressed Belle or himself. “Easy enough to fix. We’ll schedule the surgery for tomorrow.”

“No,” Rummond said, feeling as if he were talking at them from somewhere a bit far away. “No, no no-”

“You’re comfortable waiting until tomorrow?” Belle asked.

“I would do it today, but I’ve an amputation on the west ward that can’t wait, and I’ll be no good for another surgery afterward.” Dr. Whale crossed his arms, nodding to himself. “We’ll do it bright and early in the morning.”

“Belle, I don’t want to be operated on. I-” Rummond tried again as the doctor turned to leave with no more than his curt diagnosis and decision.

“Just one minute. I’ll come directly back,” she said, touching his shoulder and replacing the too-clinical touch the doctor had left behind.

Rummond propped an elbow on his thigh, resting his head in his hand. It felt too heavy.

She returned to her seat at the edge of his bunk. “I know that Dr. Whale presents as- as-”

“An arse?” Rummond supplied, eyebrows cocked.

She attempted to give him a scolding look, but it failed. “Yes. He does. But he’s no sawbones. He’s an excellent doctor. And his mortality rate is very low compared to the average.”

He looked up at her a bit incredulously. “That is not as comforting as I suspect you mean it to be.”

“Why didn’t you tell me when the pain grew worse?” Belle asked.

“It doesn’t hurt so badly when I’m lying still,” he said, sheepish in the face of her question. It was no excuse, and he knew it.

“Oh, Rummond.”

He frowned, looking down to pull his blankets back around him. “For goodness sake, stop saying my name with such disappointment.”

“I’m not disappointed.” She reached up, touching his cheek under the guise of checking how warm he was. It brought his attention back up to her. “I’m worried.”

“I can’t do this.”

“Of course you can. People have surgery in this hospital every day.”

“That isn’t what I mean. I’m sure Whale must be a- a fine surgeon. _I_ can’t-”

“Appendectomies are quite common, now. It’ll actually be rather quick, all things considered.”

He shook his head, the motion brief and anxious. It made his vision seem to swim.

“Why don’t you want to have the surgery?” she asked, flustered by his reluctance. In virtually any other situation, she would have been happy to ease him into the idea of something, but this was urgent. “You have to know it’s necessary!”

“I don't want to die!” Rummond blurted out, and he flinched at even the small amount of force behind his words, his hand going to his abdomen.

He’d said the words in Dr. Hopper’s office more than once; saying them outside of it was different. It was awful enough when he’d feared he would harm himself, but to have the decision to live or die taken away from him completely - _yet again_ \- was terrifying. He would lose it all. Neal, Belle. Everything.

“People die during surgery, Belle,” he told her more softly.

“Rummond…” Belle covered her face with her hands, pressing her fingers against her eyelids before she rested them in her lap.

She was beyond tired. Her long mid-week shift was only a few hours from being over, and she’d been looking forward to going home, having dinner, and crawling into bed for a few hours. She couldn’t do that, though - not worrying so about Rummond sitting here in pain and refusing help.

“You’re more likely to die if you _don’t_ have the surgery,” she told him, exhaustion making her a bit blunt. “A ruptured appendix means sepsis, and you know what sepsis means.”

His jaw clenched and released. “I’ve been operated on before. I did tell you.”

“I know. Your leg,” she said. She could still get furious about that mishandling, if she dwelled on it for too long. “This is different. This isn’t some vindictive butcher. Dr. Whale is a good surgeon, and I’ll be with you the entire time.”

Rummond blinked up at her. “You’ll be in with me?”

“The _entire_ time. They couldn’t drag me away.” Belle gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. It was what she’d gone after the doctor to ask - requesting to be present in the operating room. As much as she tried to reassure Rummond about the procedure, she _was_ worried for him. “I’ll be looking after the anaesthesia. I’ll have my fingers on your pulse through the whole ordeal. All right?”

He hesitated, but she could see the gears turning as he worked his way through it. Eventually, he nodded.

“All right,” he murmured. He couldn’t reason away the fear. It was only knowing that she would be there with him that made him agree. 

One of the many knots that had solidified in Belle’s stomach over the course of the day released. She drew a deep breath, trying to shake off fatigue. She’d pulled longer shifts in her VAD days. It had been a long time, but she could do it again.

“Do you think you might be able to handle some tea?” she asked, reaching over to take his hand from where it hovered near his hip. “The warmth might help.”

“It’d come back, end up hurting worse than it helped.” Rummond shook his head. 

She rested their hands on his knee. “I can get you something for the pain.”

“I don’t need anything.”

Belle really rather doubted that, but she didn’t push. “Do you want to lie down again? Would that help?”

He shifted lower in his bunk and turned onto his left side, curling himself up to alleviate the pain as much as he could. His head seemed clearer when he was still.

She stood, pulling his blankets back up. “Try to sleep, if you can.”

“You don’t have to go…” he said, turning his head enough to see her.

“I have chores to attend to. I’ll be looking in on you often, though.” She smiled down at him. She’d sit with him until the surgery, if she could, but there were patients she had to see to and things she had to do.

Belle thought perhaps he rested. She stopped to check on him nearly every time she passed his bed, and if his eyes were open, she stepped close to touch him. He fell quiet again, hardly moving save for the occasional tilt of his head a bit toward her when she stroked his cheek. His fever seemed to remain steady - she was only glad that it didn’t run higher as the evening came on.

The day seemed to stretch on so _long._ The later it grew, the less lying still seemed to help, and the stabs of pain grew longer and more frequent. Rummond heard the trolley come around with dinner trays, and Belle turned his away for him. Dinner meant that her shift would be over soon, and he dreaded having to get through the night feeling the way he did. It was some time later, when he saw Jefferson leave his bunk to go tend to his bedtime ritual, that Rummond realized Belle had stayed far past her shift. 

When she next stopped to look in on him, she sat carefully on the side of the bed opposite their usual position. “What are you doing here so late?” he asked.

“I believe I’m going to stay until your surgery is over.” She shrugged as though she hadn’t already been on the ward for somewhere upward of thirty-six hours. 

Rummond frowned up at her. “You can’t do that. You’ve been on shift since yesterday morning.”

“I’ve worked longer hours,” Belle said with a practiced lightness. “I called earlier and left a message not to be picked up. I’m not going anywhere.”

 _“Please_ go home and sleep, love?” he implored her, pulling a hand from beneath the covers to catch hers when she reached to touch his cheek again.

Belle leaned down close, her resolve to push on for yet another shift softened by him. “I wish I could tuck myself in with you,” she whispered, pressing a kiss below his temple, just next to his eye.

Her words drew a weak smile from him. “Would that you could.”

“What if I stay until lights out?”

“Lights out, and you’ll go home?”

She nodded. “I’ll even get a full three or four hours.”

He gave a sigh that was nothing if not irritated.

“I’m teasing, Rummond,” she said with a grin.

The corner of his mouth quirked a little, though there wasn’t much humor to it. “You’ll pardon if I don’t have a laugh in me right now.”

A sharp jab of pain lanced through him and he gasped, eyes squeezing shut through it. When he opened them, she had a hand cupped to his cheek, her expression drawn.

“Belle?” he asked, and she could hear the strain behind his voice again. “Is that something for pain still up for offer?”

She gave him a quick nod, stroking her thumb over his cheekbone before rising to go right to fetch it, relieved that he’d asked. She went to get the key from Nurse Boyd, who, as usual, had parked herself at the front desk for her night shift. While she was there, she stepped around to the telephone to call home, asking a very put-out sounding Mrs. Potts to tell Horatio to pick her up in an hour.

Standing at the counter in the supply closet, she needed to quickly determine how much laudanum Rummond might be able to withstand. She didn’t dare give him a full dose. After staring at a teaspoon measure for a moment, she exchanged it for a half teaspoon, and poured the ruddy brown liquid in until it beaded heavy on top. Deciding that it would be more than sufficient, she transferred it into the waiting cup and dropped the measure into the sink.

“Have you had laudanum?” she asked as she squatted down next to his bed.

“I think so. Once or twice.” He uncovered his hand again, taking the little paper cup that she held out for him.

“It isn’t pleasant.”

Rummond nodded, tipping the cup to pour its contents into his mouth. She wasn’t wrong. The taste might have rivalled the pain, itself. There was sugar somewhere in the concoction, he could tell, but it didn’t touch the foul bitterness.

She took the cup and pressed the paper flat as she resumed her place on the edge of his bed, tucking it into her pocket so that she wouldn’t have to leave again to dispose of it. The ward settled as men finished their trips to the washroom, gradually finding the quieted atmosphere that seemed to happen naturally just before they turned the lights off.

“Five minutes!” Nurse Boyd called, stepping inside and standing next to the doors. There was the soft rustling of bedclothes and the squeak of springs as everyone readied themselves for sleep. After no more and no less, the night nurse turned the switch next to her, sending the ward into darkness, and left the room again.

Belle took Rummond’s hand, and he brought them to his face, kissing her fingers. “Go home,” he whispered to her. “We did make a deal.”

“We did,” she agreed, taking her hand from his to cup his face between both of her own. She leaned once more to kiss him properly, since no one could see them, anyway, and she caught the unpleasant taste of laudanum clinging to his lips as she did. “Good night.”

“Good night,” he echoed, his fingers squeezing gently around her wrist.

She made herself stand and walk away, beckoning Nurse Halloran out into the corridor with her. Ariel had volunteered to help on Nurse Boyd's shift, though she'd progressed beyond night shift training. Belle suspected it had something to do with pining over Commander Strand, but she was only glad to have someone she could trust more than Ashley to keep an eye on Rummond.

“A round half teaspoon of laudanum every three hours, if he’s still awake. If he’s sleeping, don’t bother him,” Belle instructed explicitly. “The paper cups are on the shelf next to the oral medicines. Mind you use one. And remember to shake the bottle every time before you measure a dose.”

Ariel nodded, giving Belle a reassuring smile. “I’ll remember. We’ll be all right.”

“And Ariel…” Belle worried at her lip with her teeth. “Call me if he gets worse. If his pain grows worse, or if his fever goes up.”

“I will.”

 _“Please_ watch him closely?”

“I’ll watch him,” Nurse Halloran promised. “I’m past falling asleep on shift.”

Nurse Halloran went back inside. Belle caught the door, holding it open just enough that she could see Rummond’s shape in his bed before she forced herself to leave.


	81. Those Little Slices

Dinner was long over by the time Belle arrived home. She wasn’t surprised to find Mrs. Potts sitting at the counter in the middle of the kitchen when she went in to find something for her dinner, staunch disapproval on the cook’s face for Belle’s hours. It was only after she explained the situation that Mrs. Potts tutted sympathetically and sat her down for a sandwich of braised roast leftovers and a bowl of rich broth from its cooking. She’d had precisely one bite when Neal poked his head in.

“Belle!” At full speed, he ran the short distance between the kitchen doorway and the stool she sat on, colliding with her and throwing his arms around her waist. He looked up at her with a beatific little smile. “You’re home.”

She took his face in her hands and dropped a weary kiss on the crown of his head. “A bit late, but home. How was school today?”

Stepping a foot up onto the rung that braced the stool’s legs, and with Belle’s help, he climbed into her lap. He sat there in perfect contentment while she ate with one hand, the other arm encircling him. He was warm and comforting as he leaned back against her, chattering about his day while she had her dinner. 

Belle felt as though she dozed her way through eating. With her last sip of broth, she sighed. “I need to get right to bed.”

“No sitting room?” he asked, tilting his head back to look up at her.

“Not tonight, darling.” She gave him an apologetic smile. “I have a very early morning.”

“You’re sleepy,” he said, nodding.

“I am.” She crossed her arms around Neal, snugging him close. “Your Papa loves you,” she told him, squeezing him until he giggled.

“Tell him I love him, too. In the morning?”

“I will be absolutely certain to.”

“You’ve arithmetic to work on before bedtime,” Mrs. Potts reminded, handing a pair of little almond biscuits across to him. “Why don’t you go and see to that?”

Neal turned, letting himself slide down to the floor when Belle released him. “G’night!” he said before going.

“Good night, darling,” Belle told him, and he took off again. She shook her head. “I wish I had that much energy just now.”

The cook puffed out a breath in her amusement, taking the bowl and saucer from the counter. “Just you wait until you’re my age. You’ll wish for energy, indeed.” She set the dishes into the sink. “I worried there for a moment that you were about to tell the boy about his father.”

“No. He’s not to know,” Belle said, looking up at Mrs. Potts while she took pins from around the edge of her cap. “Not yet. I’ll tell him on Sunday. There’s no sense in upsetting him.”

“Well, what time do you need to wake by?”

“I’ll need to be up by half past four. The surgery is meant to happen first thing, and I want to be in early.”

Mrs. Potts turned her head to look at the small clock that she timed things by, on the cabinet next to the oven. She looked back to Belle, raising an eyebrow.

“I’ve Saturday to catch up on sleep,” Belle defended, knowing the look. It was the same look she’d received when she took on a second night shift. 

She stifled a yawn, and Mrs. Potts came bustling around the end of the counter, nudging her up from her seat. “Straight upstairs and to bed with you, before I catch you falling asleep in my kitchen. I’ll tell your father you’ve been fed and sent up.”

Her only stop on the way was the landing on the stairs, when another yawn refused to be ignored, and she held the banister to keep from swaying. 

Belle covered her hair with a kerchief so that she wouldn’t have to fuss with it when she woke, and she quickly decided to sleep in her underthings. The fewer obstacles between herself and the hospital the next morning, the better. 

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

Even tired as Belle was, she had a difficult time dropping off. All that she could think of was Rummond lying there on the ward in pain.

She tried going through the steps of the operation in her thoughts, in an attempt to calm her mind. From first incision to closing sutures, she envisioned it twice, her fingers twitching against her stomach with motions she’d not yet been allowed to practice. It wasn’t until she let her memory stray to the warmth in his eyes when he looked at her and the way it felt when he held onto her, though, that she was lulled to sleep.

It was four thirty sharp when Mrs. Potts rapped on her bedroom door. She was downstairs after perhaps the quickest dressing she’d ever executed, and she was met by a very determined Mrs. Potts then blocking the foot of the stairs. The cook, still in her dressing gown and pincurls, gave her a cup of cocoa and a piece of toast spread with apricot jam, along with a look that brooked no dodging. Belle wolfed the food down anxiously, and she was still brushing bread crumbs from her coat when she got into the tourer out front.

She arrived to work a solid hour early. Nurse Halloran appeared worn, but Rummond slept, and she was grateful of it. 

“He only fell asleep after the very last dose before you came in,” Ariel whispered to her near the ward door. She pressed a hand to her cheek, glancing over Belle’s shoulder at Captain Gold and shaking her head. “He’s in such pain… Dr. Whale had better get that thing out before it bursts.”

“He will,” Belle said, not allowing for anything else. 

She took a chair, hefting it over to Rummond’s bedside and placing it between his space and Lieutenant Hargreaves’. Much as she wanted to be closer, she wouldn’t risk waking him by sitting on the bed, itself. With a lantern set down by her feet, she watched him, his face drawn even in sleep.

It was nearly daylight when Rummond came to. He opened his eyes to find Belle there, and he had to blink a few times to clear his vision and to be certain that she wasn’t some fever dream.

“How long’ve you been here?” he asked a bit groggily. 

Her smile made his very long night seem a little less futile. “Not too long. An hour or so.”

A sharp pain went through his abdomen, and his mouth pinched. “You were meant to get some sleep.”

“I got quite enough sleep, thank you,” she said, leaning to stroke his hair away from his face. “I gather you didn’t.”

“I slept fine,” Rummond lied. 

He’d spent the greater part of the night hurting, and he’d expected to. The laudanum took the edge off his pain, but it by no means got rid of it completely. Lying in pain in the dark hadn’t done much for his nerves, either.

Belle moved her hand from his hair to his cheek. She found it at least as hot as the night before. Using the opportunity of the lack of light while it lasted, she petted his hair. It seemed to soothe him. 

“Neal asked me to tell that he loves you,” she said, hoping that the message would help still more.

Rummond smiled, but it flickered away quickly. He’d spent a great deal of the night worrying about his son, before he’d finally been drugged to sleep.

“You didn’t tell him, did you?” he asked, and she shook her head. “Good. He doesn’t need to know.”

“He’ll need to know before Sunday, so he’ll know not to roughhouse.”

Rummond wrinkled his nose a bit. He’d have preferred Neal not to know at all, but Belle had a point. He didn’t want a knee in the stomach, belonging to his son or not. “I suppose he will.”

“I believe it’ll be all right, once he knows you’re mending.” She pushed his hair behind his ear to stop it from sliding back into his eyes.

“Belle, if anything _were_ to go badly,” he began, speaking with just enough voice that she could hear while she leaned close. “Could you look after Neal? Would you?”

“It’s going to go perfectly fine,” she assured him.

“I hope you’re right, but… _if.”_ He raised his head, and he didn’t know why it should make him hurt worse, but it somehow did. “I don’t want to ask too much of you. You’ve done so much already, but he adores y-”

“Of course I would take care of him,” Belle agreed. She thought it might give him some measure of comfort to hear her say it. “That isn’t even in question. Of course I would.”

“You wouldn’t let my father have him?” he asked, remembering the man’s remarks about taking his son. Panic over what was to happen this morning roiled in his stomach, drawing further worries in after it.

“Rum,” she said, recognizing the way his breathing began to quicken. “Never. I have places I could hide him, if it came to that,” she promised.

She hoped that none of them would ever have to see the sorry excuse for a human being again, but she also knew she would protect Neal from him and anything he could send after them, if such a thing _did_ happen.

Rummond let his head fall back onto his pillow. “Good,” he sighed. “Good.”

“Everything will be just fine, Rum. In a few hours, you’ll be minus an appendix and resting comfortably, and Neal will be in on Sunday morning to see you. Though I won’t have you participating in any roughhousing, either,” she teased.

That drew a smile from him. The softly huffed laugh that she saw begin was cut quickly off with a flinch and a whimper. He looked at her as though it was the last time he might see her. A part of her wanted to tell him that he was being ridiculous, but there was the nagging, fearful knowledge she had of how many people _did_ die during surgery. As much as she tried to reassure him, his worry wasn’t unfounded.

“You’re good with chloroform?” he asked.

“I’ve done anaesthetic for more procedures than I can count.”

“And I won’t be strapped? Or held down?”

“No, you’ll only be lying on the operating table,” Belle explained. She would go through every bit of it for him, if it would help. “I’ll be sitting up at your head. You’ll be able to see me as you go to sleep.”

“I was held down for it, when they worked on my leg.” He frowned, not certain why he was telling her. It made him sound pathetic. There must have been more medicine lingering in his system than he realized.

“Held you down?” She stroked her thumb at the corner of his mouth.

“I was nervous over being chloroformed. Never had been put under before. I asked for a minute before they did it, but the field surgeon didn’t want the delay,” he murmured, closing his eyes as her hand went still. “Couple of Redcaps held me down.”

“He should have waited,” she said. She leaned down to kiss him, short and rather chaste. Field hospitals were usually in great hurry for good reason, but few were in such a hurry that he couldn’t have been allowed a minute or two to wrap his mind around being anaesthetized for the first time. “When we get in there, you tell me when you’re ready. All right?”

He nodded, looking at her as though she’d offered him the world. Belle suspected that he was still feeling the laudanum. She smiled and sank her fingers into the hair at his nape, rubbing gently at the pain-tensed muscles in the back of his neck.

She sat with Rummond, repeating to him what she could remember of Neal’s chattering from the night before. The room grew brighter bit by bit, and true to the doctor’s word, it was indeed the very first thing of the day when Graham and an orderly from the west ward came in to fetch Rummond. Nurse Halloran had barely turned the lights on when they backed their way through the door, a gurney between them.

His eyes were closed - squeezed so tightly shut that it creased the bridge of his nose - until she slid her hand from his neck to his shoulder, patting him to make him aware that she had to move.

“Graham is here to take you to the operating room,” she told him softly, standing and taking the chair out of the way before they wheeled the gurney over behind her. She leaned over him. “Can you sit up for me?”

When he moved to do as she asked, she folded the blankets back and wrapped a hand around his upper arm to provide a bit of leverage. He groaned as he shifted around to get his legs over the edge of the bed.

“All right, Captain Gold. Here we go,” Graham said as he took Belle’s position.

“Go slowly,” she told Graham. “Don’t hurry him.”

The orderly stepped close, reaching to put an arm around Rummond’s back to take his weight and help him to his feet. The couple of steps to the gurney were difficult, and he hated how bent over he had to remain as he made them, the pain not allowing him to stand up straight.

“No nagging about slippers?” Rummond said, glancing up at Humbert.

The orderly held onto him more tightly, and he felt the boy beginning to lift.

“I can get myself onto the thing plenty well enough,” he grumbled.

“Just let him help you.” Belle shook her head. “You need to put as little stress on your body as possible right now.”

“Belle…” He looked up at her and sighed.

She gave him an exasperated, _“Rummond.”_

“Fine. Go on, then,” he muttered, giving in.

“I suppose I’ll let you by with bare feet today,” Graham said, and he braced the Captain’s arms to help him up. He grinned over at Belle, whose amusement was obviously dampened, and brought his patient’s legs onto the gurney, turning him in the process. “Only today, though, mind.”

“Can you lie on your back?” Belle asked, unfolding the blanket from the bottom of the gurney and pulling it up over his lap.

“Not easily,” he said, scooting down a bit and swallowing back on another groan as he reclined enough to get his elbows under him. The pain was worse when he stretched himself out - hence having kept himself curled as tightly as possible for the past day and a half. He managed it, pulling in shallow breaths in an attempt to avoid moving any muscles between his shoulders and knees. 

Belle finished tugging the blanket over him. “There, now. That was the worst of it.”

“I have some doubt of that,” he said, but there was no bitterness to his words, only dread.

“They’ll be taking you on, now. I need to get myself ready, but I’ll be right there,” she reassured, patting his chest. “All right?”

He nodded, and then the pair of orderlies were moving him, leaving Belle behind. 

It was a strange and unsettling sort of helplessness, being wheeled through the corridors while staff were still arriving and heading toward their destinations. He closed his eyes so that he didn’t have to see them.

Even without the pause and turn to go through a doorway, he’d have known he was in an operating room before opening his eyes again when they stopped. The room smelled of the sweet-sharpness of carbolic. It had never really been a disagreeable odor, but just now it made his stomach turn. He wished for Belle.

Belle scrubbed up to her elbows at the large porcelain sink in the smaller room connected to the operating theatre. One of Dr. Whale’s usual scrub nurses draped a sterile towel over her arms and turned the water off when she’d finished, then helped her into a clean surgical gown from the sterilizer. Her nurse’s cap and pins lay on the shelf over the sink, so that her hair could be covered with a surgical cap. The scrub nurse tied a mask at the back of Belle’s head to cover her mouth and nose. 

There would be six of them in the room, all covered nearly head to toe in the same sterile white. Surely Rummond would recognize her, though.

Graham and the other orderly came in to scrub, themselves, just as she finished. “Belle, wait a minute?” he asked as he approached the sink, and she stepped near again.

While the scrub nurse pulled another gown from one of the sterilizers placed against the opposite wall, Graham spoke quietly. “I’m not sure about you being present, Belle,” he said, glancing over at her as he washed carefully beneath his fingernails. “The only reason Dr. Whale’s agreed to have you in is because he doesn’t know your relationship.”

“I do realize that.” She looked to the open doorway leading into the operating room. “I can’t leave Rummond to it alone. Not the way he feels about it.”

Graham gave a half shake of his head. “I understand why you’re doing it. It’s not as if I blame you. I’d likely do the same. _You_ understand, though, it’s different to see a stranger operated on than seeing someone you care for?”

Belle held the backs of her hands together, near her chest. She’d had more than enough time to consider just that, and as many surgeries as she’d been present for, this was the first one that made her heart hurt by the simple fact of taking place. If she were honest with herself, she wasn’t quite sure how she might react until the surgery was underway.

“I know,” she said, frowning a bit behind her mask. “All the more reason not to leave him.”

There was a nurse draped with surgical garb in the room when they brought him in, and she was the only one who stayed when the orderlies left. She stood between the operating table he’d been transferred to and a table of surgical instruments, her hand hovering above each as she seemed to take some manner of inventory. Belle had remarked that the move from his bunk to the gurney was the worst of it, but he thought the wait might be worse still.

It was a relief to hear someone else come back in. He didn’t attempt to crane his neck; it hurt too much to move, every damned muscle in his body seeming to be connected to the pain in his abdomen. When the person came closer, he could tell that it was a she and that she was a nurse, and he hoped that it was Belle.

When she took a place at the head of the operating table, sitting on a stool high enough that she could look down at him, he saw a pair of blue eyes peeking from between the edges of the cap and mask. There was a smile in the corners of them.

“Belle,” he breathed, tilting his head back a little, and he could tell how her smile broadened by the way her eyes narrowed further with it.

“I’ve got you, now,” she told him, wiggling to make herself more comfortable on the stool. “I’m here for the duration.”

Belle took a watch from the small table holding the anaesthesia supplies, laying it on the operating table above Rummond’s head so that she could see it more easily. She’d have felt more comfortable with her own watch - she trusted it more - but the screw top watch was far more suitable for disinfecting.

Dr. Whale, dressed the same as the rest of them, came in, followed by one last nurse.

“Good morning, Captain Gold!” the doctor said a bit too loudly for a room with nothing but hard surfaces. “We’ll not tarry here too long before we begin. Mr. Humbert, go on and prep the patient for surgery.”

Rummond, already in naught save his hospital gown and underwear, realized he was about to lose that much, as well. Humbert unfolded a large surgical drape and laid it out from his waist down, only then beginning to pull his gown up. He was thankful of that much modesty, at least. It took less contortion than he expected to relieve him of the gown entirely, and the orderly draped him from chin to ribs with a second cloth before going back to remove the last vestige of his clothing. He’d accepted that it was necessary to cleanliness, but medical professionals or not, it was an exercise in humiliation to be so near naked in a room full of people. It was all he could do to not tilt his head over in response when Belle rested a hand in the curve between his neck and shoulder.

There wasn’t much hair there, really, if any at all. Belle _had_ taken notice on the single occasion she’d gotten to roam his skin with her hands. But Graham quickly and handily shaved the surgical site, wiping over it with a cloth soaked in phenol.

“We had a match for the patient’s blood, didn’t we?” Dr. Whale asked, as if he were the one who had searched through charts and drew blood to verify, rather than one of the nurses.

“Yes, doctor,” the scrub nurse next to him confirmed. “I found a type match with a gentleman from the west ward.”

“Let’s have that bottle nearby, just in case.”

The nurse, double checking the label on the bottle that sat well within view on the table right beside the instruments, eyed the back of his head for a second before saying, “Of course, doctor.”

“We’re ready to begin, Nurse French,” Dr. Whale said, turning away.

Belle slipped her hand from Rummond’s shoulder, and she took the anaesthesia mask with its fresh cloth cover from the case. She had only just picked it up when he reacted. 

“Wait, wait,” he gasped, his eyes widening in a wave of fright.

She held the mask out of his peripheral vision. “I’m waiting,” she told him, letting him know that she listened. “Tell me when.”

It took him a moment to gather himself, but he nodded. “All right,” he said, though his voice remained a bit thin.

Belle rested the frame gently over his mouth and nose, and she began administering the chloroform drop by drop onto the piece of white flannel. One of his hands showed from beneath the draping cloth, his fingers gripping the edge of the operating table so tightly that they paled white. She could tell by the way his eyelids fluttered that he struggled to stay awake.

She leaned down a little, attempting to hold onto some modicum of professionalism. “It’s all right, Captain,” she told him quietly, forcing a smile to her face so that it would show for him. “Go to sleep. You’ll be all right.”

He tilted his head back again to better see her, and she prayed silently that it wasn’t the last time she would see the warm brown of his eyes.

Rummond fought against the anaesthesia, not wanting to go under. He could very plainly see the worry in Belle’s eyes even behind the smile she placed there for him. 

The clinking of instruments and equipment suddenly had an echo to it, seeming farther and farther away, the voices in the room coming to him as if through water. The edges of his vision softened and began darkening. An unsought memory of the boy he’d killed with his knife darted into his thoughts. Wouldn’t it be just and right for him to die under someone else’s blade, himself? The idea made him want to stop _now,_ to push the mask away and beg Belle to let him go back to the ward, but it was too late to move so much as a finger.

Dr. Whale was inspecting the instrument table, and the nurse with control of it watched him with an annoyed quirk to her mouth when he adjusted the positions of the scalpels. Belle took advantage of attentions being elsewhere.

Under guise of looking closely at the watch, Belle bowed her head nearer to speak softly to Rummond. “I’ll take care of you while you’re asleep. Go on, sweetheart.”

It was only when his eyes dropped closed and his muscles went lax that she let her smile fall. His hand slipped limply off the table where he’d been holding to it for dear life. Quietly, she said, “Graham?” and he reached to place it back on.

Belle slowed the rate of the chloroform drip to a maintenance flow. She took a breath to calm her nerves before giving the notification. “The patient is out, doctor.”


	82. Seared With Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Warning for mild blood and slightly graphic description of a surgical procedure, though most of that is from Belle's pov and pretty technical.)
> 
> Prompt - _anonymousnerdgirl said: "BtFtB prompt: While Rummond is anesthetized (and out of harm's way) Belle asks Whale to thoroughly examine his injured knee."_

She balanced the mask so that she could let go of its handle, moving her hand to place her index and middle fingers over his carotid pulse. It was her job to monitor his heart and breathing, and the chloroform would slow both a bit. She made an initial measure by the watch before the doctor began.

Giving Nurse Altra - his scrub nurse - only a cursory glance, Dr. Whale requested the bottle holding phenol from her. He pressed the plunger on top to spray the exposed skin once more. Handing it back to the nurse, he called for a scalpel and began plotting out landmarks on Rummond’s abdomen with his fingers before making a diagonal incision over the approximate site. The area was slightly general by necessity; variations in anatomy meant that one never could know with perfect precision where the appendix might lay.

Belle had seen the surgery a dozen times if she’d seen it once, been the assisting nurse on three, and she was confident that she could perform it by now. She’d been closer to surgical procedures at the field hospital she had been stationed at than she had since taking a job at Firefly Hill. Part of that was her preference for the east ward, she was certain. But the greater part still had to do with the infuriating prejudices against women practicing ‘real’ medicine.

The doctor began cutting into the layers of the abdominal wall. Belle observed as he carefully cut through each muscle in line with their respective muscle fibers. She felt Rummond’s pulse beating, strong and even, against the pads of her fingers. 

“Why do we do it in this manner?” Dr. Whale asked the room. “Why not slice straight down?”

“To reduce chances of incisional hernias,” Belle said before it quite registered that she’d answered.

Dr. Whale looked over at her in surprise, as if she shouldn’t know. Pressing her lips together behind her mask, she realized belatedly that it was a bit of show on his part, and she’d stepped on the toes of his ‘teach the underlings something’ moment.

With raised eyebrows and a smile, Nurse Altra handed another retractor across to the nurse on the other side of the operating table, to aid in holding open the deepening incision. As the depth increased, Belle could no longer see as well from her position, but she could tell the moment he cut through the peritoneum. There was always a change of atmosphere in an operating theatre when a patient had been properly opened up. 

It took a moment of mopping blood and fluids away with sponges, followed by careful searching, but Dr. Whale delivered the cecum from the incision. Belle could once more see what was going on, and she could easily tell that the small, offending organ attached to its end was swollen and terribly infected. Her stomach felt queasy with relief that it hadn’t ruptured inside Rummond.

The doctor called for a hemostatic clamp, and he caught the appendix with it before giving the instrument over to the nurse standing across from him, so that she could help by holding it aside while he worked. He placed another clamp at the base, pinching it all the way across.

Rummond’s pulse began to slow further, and Belle was quite certain that it wasn’t the anaesthetic’s doing. 

“Doctor,” she said, alerting him. “The patient’s pulse has slowed a bit much.”

“I’m nearly finished here, nurse,” he replied with some distraction, concentrating.

Unwilling to be put off for even a second, Belle said more sharply, _“Dr. Whale.”_

It was gratifying when his hands froze in position and he looked up. She couldn’t have cared less in that moment how irritated he was with her. Her suggestion was a firm one. “Captain Gold’s pulse is slowing. He’s lost blood. Perhaps he needs the transfusion now.”

The doctor looked down at the incision, at the bloodied draping around it, and he gave a sharp nod to the nurse assisting him. “Nurse Mannion, hang the blood.”

Graham stepped in to take the retractors and hemostat. It was a simple task that he’d looked after before, and a transfusion required more attention than holding the instruments.

Nurse Mannion accepted the bottle of blood from the scrub nurse and went over to hang it. She probed for a vein, finally slipping the needle into Rummond’s arm, and secured it before going back to her position. 

It took a few moments once blood began to flow through the tube, and Belle’s shoulders and neck hurt with tension by the time it happened, but his pulse finally began to pick up again. She wanted so badly to stroke Rummond’s hair, to touch his face - to provide _some_ sort of comfort, even if he wouldn’t be aware of it.

She watched as the doctor placed another clamp a small space above the first, calling for catgut sutures to perform the ligation between them. He cut cleanly just beneath the top clamp and removed the bottom one. It was quick work from there to invert the appendix’s stump into the cecum, closing the end with a pursestring stitch. Belle had witnessed a couple of different approaches and read of still more, but the way Dr. Whale did it was the first time she’d seen that particular method performed in person.

He cleaned the incision out with gauze sponges, tossing the forceps holding them into a basin for sake of speed as new ones were placed in his hand without needing to ask. Rummond’s vital signs were still within normal, but Belle was glad that they were so near finishing. She looked down at his still face. The sooner she could stop anaesthesia and have him back in his own bed, the better.

“Nearly ready for the closing sutures,” Dr. Whale said, dropping the last sponge in with the rest. Graham took the basin, handing it off to the scrub nurse at the instrument table, then accepted each of the three retractors as the doctor removed them.

“A moment,” Nurse Altra replied, sorting through the used forceps.

The doctor waited only a few seconds more before prompting her testily, “We do have a patient open here. I would like to sew him up at some point this morning.”

“Another moment. The sponge count is off by one.”

Belle darted a look between Nurse Altra and Dr. Whale. It was no small thing, to be missing a sponge.

“Mr. Humbert,” the scrub nurse said, “have a look around the draping?”

Graham pulled carefully at the wrinkles that had developed in the sterile fabric during surgery, going from one side of the operating table to the other, and found nothing. “It isn’t here,” he told her, and he lowered his eyes to the floor to check.

The nurse from Graham’s side of the table began a walk around the room, as well, her eyes scanning the tile. When neither turned up the missing sponge, Dr. Whale asked for the sutures again.

“We’ll find it,” Nurse Altra said, refusing to suffer his push to sew the patient up anyway.

“Nurse Mannion, you know which spool holds the catgut,” the doctor said, looking to the nurse he’d sent to hang the transfusion. She hesitated, though, obviously uncomfortable with being asked in such a way.

Dr. Whale made a noise of irritation. He turned to look the scrub nurse head-on. “Perhaps you miscounted before the procedure began, nurse.”

“I know how to count, _doctor.”_

Nurse Altra, a woman whom Belle knew to be near fifteen years Dr. Whale’s senior, had been working in operating theatres while the doctor was still in short trousers. And the look she gave him said as much.

Belle spoke up to agree with the scrub nurse. “Look again.” 

In general, nurses butting heads with a surgeon wasn’t nearly as bad a thing as surgeons led to believe. She’d never seen it happen without good cause. However, she couldn’t allow a doctor-nurse squabble to cause further delay _now._ If she had to pile on, she would.

“A patient isn’t closed until instruments are correctly accounted for. Even _I_ know as much,” she said, a belated bit of scorn in her tone for his earlier look of shock.

“Count again,” Dr. Whale said, and she could see the consternation on his face.

“I am looking at the basin,” Nurse Altra said slowly, as if he would comprehend her better for it. “I’ve counted a half dozen times. We are down a sponge.”

“I do not want to have to open this man up further to perform an exploratory to search for a _sponge.”_

“That fact doesn’t make it appear from thin air, doctor.”

The scrub nurse stepped back and looked around her, performing a search of her own. She moved to walk a circuit of the operating room, her eyes first on the floor, then on the operating table and beneath it. She walked around the attendees, giving a pull to each of their surgical gowns so that she could look at the floor around their feet and dislodge anything that might be clinging to the fabric.

“Are you certain you couldn’t be mistaken about the count?” the doctor asked with an exaggerated patience.

“Yes,” she snipped. “I am not mistaken. I set the instrument table. I know what’s meant to be there.” 

Dr. Whale grumbled, “Good Lord,” as she began to walk the room again.

She circled back to the instruments and beckoned to the orderly who stood near the doors. “I need you to have a look under the tables.”

The orderly got down on his hands and knees, tilting his head to look first beneath the instrument table, then turning toward the operating table. He reached beneath, behind the table leg nearest the doctor, and brought out a small, soiled roll of gauze. It felt as if the room relaxed in a collective sigh.

“Your closing sutures, doctor,” Nurse Altra said, holding a threaded needle out for him as the orderly went back to re-scrub.

Suture thread and curved needle in hand at long last, Dr. Whale began backing out of the incision. He closed each layer of the abdominal wall in turn, first suturing back together the peritoneum, then closing the muscles one after the other. He stopped to irrigate the incision with antiseptic solution, then placed a number of stitches into the thin fat layer, until all that remained was closing the skin.

Belle watched closely, willing the doctor to take his time and use fine stitches. He used silk on the outside, for ease of removal - the catgut inside would eventually be absorbed. If she’d had her own preference she would have done the last of the sutures herself; she felt that hers were far finer and would cause less of a scar. She was also certain that her opinion on it was quite unwelcome.

It wasn’t that a scar would bother her - it was only that Rummond had enough of them. He didn’t need yet another thing to be self-conscious of. Her gaze slipped down to his leg, exposed in a way he would have never have allowed, were he awake. She knew how it bothered him.

“Well,” Dr. Whale said, snipping the black silk close to Rummond’s skin and handing the instruments back to Nurse Altra. “I believe I’m done here. Mr. Humbert, Mr.-”

“Dr. Whale?” Belle asked.

“You have a question?” he said without looking her way.

“I have something to ask of you,” she replied. That brought his attention to her. “While Captain Gold is out and the pain won’t be an issue, I wondered if you might perform a thorough examination of the injury to his leg?”

The doctor took a step toward the end of the table, looking down at the mass of scar tissue. “Why, Nurse French, that’s long healed.”

Belle was aware that the attention of _everyone_ in the operating theatre was now on her. She resisted squirming under it. “It is, yes. But the surgeon who looked after it wasn’t nearly as adept at his art, apparently,” she went on, knowing how susceptible Dr. Whale was to flattery. “The bones didn’t heal properly, and I wondered if there were perhaps something you might do.”

The doctor hummed, wiping the majority of the blood from his hands with a sterile towel. He wrapped his hands around Rummond’s calf, pressing his fingers so hard into the flesh that Belle cringed.

She knew some of what he would find. She remembered the way the bones felt - a lack of space in the places it should be, lumps in places they shouldn’t. Scarring on the tissue inside even worse than out. Dr. Whale palpated Rummond’s leg for a few moments longer, and she waited anxiously.

“It seems you’re right, Nurse French,” he said, leaning to inspect the scar around the exit wound. “The bones have malhealed, and rather badly. It would take surgery and breaking both bones over again to repair, _if_ it could be repaired at all, after the way the bones have knit back together. Which I’m reasonably certain it couldn’t. To disturb it might even make it more difficult for the patient to walk.”

Belle had known it was likely, but she couldn’t help feeling a bit deflated. “Thank you, doctor.”

“All right, then. _Now_ we’re done?” he asked, glancing to Belle with a waggish narrowing of his eyes. “Orderlies, if you’ll see the patient back to his ward, once the details have been tended to? I’ve still rounds to make.”

Dr. Whale left to get rid of his surgical garb and wash up, leaving the rest of them to what he deemed ‘details.’

“You’ve everything in place for Captain Gold’s recovery from the procedure?” Nurse Altra asked.

Belle set the drip bottle back onto the table next to her, removing the mask from Rummond’s face and placing it back in its holder. “We do. I’ll be sitting with him until he’s conscious enough to be aware of himself.”

She hoped to sit with him a good while longer than that, but the state of the ward didn’t always allow what she wanted.

“I’ll take care of his incision, if that’s all right?” Belle offered.

Nurse Mannion, removing the needle from Rummond arm, shrugged and went to scrub out, herself. Nurse Altra nodded as she gathered the instruments to take them for washing and sterilization.

After folding the surgical drapes up over Rummond so that they were out of the way, Graham and the other orderly very carefully rolled him to get the bloodstained sheet from under him, replacing it at the same time with a clean one. Graham removed the drapings and folded the edge of the sheet over Rummond’s groin in quick enough succession that he wasn’t exposed. 

Belle moved her stool over next to the operating table so that she could wash the area around his incision. She took a closer look at Dr. Whale’s suturing work. They were all right - more than good enough by most standards - but she still felt as though she could have done better with them. She cleaned away the film of blood left on his skin, and then wiped a cloth sprayed with phenol in a wide circle around the incision and down over his hip.

With gentle fingers and a light touch, she applied ointment over the stitches to protect them and keep the dressing from sticking, and laid a large pad of gauze on top before wrapping a long strip around him to secure it in place. Together, she and Graham got a clean hospital gown on him. Putting one on an unconscious person was far more difficult than removing one. She pulled the hem down over his hips before Graham folded the sheet away. She moved, and he took the top corners of the sheet, the orderly from the west ward taking the bottom ones, and they slid Rummond easily from the table to the gurney. The other orderly waited with him while she and Graham scrubbed out.

“Be careful with him,” she warned as they took the gurney back into the corridor, heading to the east ward. They would, she knew, but she had to say it.

She had to make a stop by the supply closet before she could take up her station next to Rummond. Thankfully, Nurse Nolan was easy to find, and she let Belle in to fetch the vial of morphine and syringe that she needed.

They were just getting Rummond transferred safely back into his bed when she made it in, and she took the time to stand by the window and draw up the correct morphine dose. By the time she dropped the vial into her apron pocket and headed over, Graham had the chair she’d taken earlier in the morning moved to her usual side of Rummond’s bed.

Graham stopped to rest a hand on her shoulder. “Let me know if you’ve need of anything,” he said before following the other orderly and the empty gurney out.

Belle placed the syringe on Rummond’s bedside table. She arranged his blankets the way he liked them before pulling the chair a bit nearer the bed to sit down, and she reached out to rest a hand against his cheek. Something in her was soothed by getting to touch him in a way that wasn’t clinical. His skin was cool, though she knew it was only the anaesthetic at work. His fever wouldn’t clear up for at least a day.

It took nearly a quarter of an hour, but he began to stir. As soon as he did, she folded back the side of his covers and pulled his gown up just enough to inject into the fleshy part of his hip. After a few minutes, he settled again, and Belle looked at her watch. He’d need another in around four hours. 

She sat back in her chair, her hand curled over his forearm, and she waited for him to wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Please keep an eye out - if my brain will cooperate, I’ll have a little extra chapter up sometime mid-week.)


	83. Where the Light Enters You

Graham brought her a cup of tea a bit after lunchtime, as well as a plate of jam and toast that Zelda insisted she have along with it. He remained nearby, asking after Rummond, and she suspected that half of his purpose in hovering was to make sure that she ate. She nibbled her way through part of a piece of toast while Graham stood next to her with his arms crossed over his chest.

Her mouth was full when Rummond made a soft, snuffling groan. She quickly took a sip of tea and set the plate on his table.

“Well, hello,” Belle said as he opened his eyes just enough that she could see a sliver of brown. She leaned close, smiling down at him. “Look at you, alive and well.”

An answering grin spread across his face, and she knew right away that he was feeling the morphine. He’d only had his second dose perhaps half an hour before lunch trays came around. She intended to encourage him to go back to sleep, once she’d seen him clear of the chloroform.

“Ye just wanted me tae live because ye have designs on me,” he lilted heavily, medication rendering his speech just this side of intelligible. “Don’t mind tellin’ ye how I been lookin’ forward tae ’em, either.”

Her face pinked. She swallowed back a laugh as she glanced around. “Rummond, shh,” she whispered, giving his chest a gentle pat.

“I ken ye well, Miss… Nurse… Belle,” he went on, far too much amusement in his voice.

Graham wasn’t looking at her, but she saw his mouth twitch when she glanced up at him from Rummond’s drugged rambling. Lieutenant Hargreaves was downright snickering over on his own bed.

“Hush, you,” she told Jefferson, and she looked back to Graham. “Would you fetch some toileting supplies?” she asked him quietly, to give him something to do before he got too tickled.

“Yes, ma’am,” Graham teased, and she could hear him chuckle as he turned to go.

Rummond moved his hand enough that she could tell he reached for her. He managed to turn it palm up before it flopped over again, and by the time she’d slipped her hand into his, he’d fallen asleep.

It was near two before he woke again. Light was pouring in through the hospital windows across the ward from him, and she’d moved her chair a bit to place herself between him and the sun, so that it didn’t blare directly onto his face. She had the book from his bedside table open on her lap, and she skimmed silently through the pages around the place he had marked.

He gasped before she knew he was awake, and when she looked up, she found his expression open, awed.

“I knew ye were an angel...” he began with a slurring singsong. He lifted a hand toward her face, but his fingertips only clumsily grazed her lips.

Belle grinned, grabbing for his hand as it went half limp. It thumped gently against her chest before falling to her lap, and she wrapped her hands around it.

Rummond blinked, and his eyelids felt as if they’d weights attached. His vision was strangely bleary, but a halo of light seemed to positively glow around Belle. “When I saw ye in that blue frock, I knew ye were. I knew.”

“Frock?” Belle repeated, mostly to herself, since his eyes had been somehow distracted by the air around her. She tried to figure out what he meant. The only thing he had ever seen her in was her nurse’s uniform, and that could hardly qualify as a ‘frock.’

“Rum, what blue- _Oh,”_ she breathed as it hit her. 

The night she left her engagement party to look after him. Apparently her dress had made some manner of impression. She shook her head fondly, leaning closer to him again. Though they were drowsy, his eyes met hers.

“All the way back then, hm?” Belle asked quietly. 

She supposed it was a good thing that she didn’t expect an answer, because he was gone again before she reached out to cup her free hand at the scruff-roughened line of his jaw.

Bending nearer still, she confessed to him what she hadn’t been able to be honest with herself about at the time. “Me, too.”

Belle heard a small fuss from the far end of the ward, and she cringed inside when she saw Nurse Mills headed her way. She sat back and moved Rummond’s hand from her lap, where she held it in the middle of his book, replacing it on the bed next to him. 

“Ah, we’re attached to our pet patient’s hip yet again, I see,” the head nurse said, stopping on the near side of Rummond’s footlocker. Her smile might have passed for pleasant, if not for the cruel glint in her eyes above it. “How _is_ it that you get away with neglecting your work so often?”

“Because I don’t.” Belle exhaled slowly through her nose before turning in her chair to look at the head nurse. “I am doing my job - observing a patient immediately after a surgical procedure. Nurse Halloran is minding the beds in my area for the time being, which she is perfectly capable of doing. Besides that, I’m right here if anything comes up that she does need help with.”

The head nurse quite literally looked down her nose at Belle, standing over her as she did. “You’re assuming the right to delegate duties, now?”

Belle was in no mood to suffer Nurse Mills’ conversational daggers. “She _is_ still in training, and with me, at that.”

“Only just.”

“We closely observe patients who have had surgery. You know that as well as I do.”

“I don’t believe your job description includes anything regarding fondling patients, incapacitated or not.”

Belle’s eyes narrowed up at the head nurse. “You know, Nurse Mills, I just don’t know what to tell you, if touching someone’s hand falls under the category of ‘fondling’ by your definition.”

“I _am_ beginning to enjoy watching you set yourself up for such a long fall, Nurse French. So, by all means, continue,” Nurse Mills said, smiling malevolently down at her. “The more closely you associate yourself with the lech, the more satisfying it will be when you at last wrap your mind around what he is.”

“‘Fondling,’ indeed,” Belle muttered to herself once the head nurse had left the ward. The woman’s glib and pervasive hate made Belle’s teeth grind. “She couldn’t keep her mouth shut for _one day._ Heaven forbid a nurse lends comfort to a patient who’s undergone the trauma of surgery.”

“Well, there’s comfort, and then there is _comfort,”_ Jefferson said, smirking across at her.

She gave him a chiding look for eavesdropping. “Aren’t you reading?”

“Between books.”

“You’d might better find another before someone comes up with something for you to help with, Lieutenant Hargreaves.”

He imitated a fearful shudder. “I live in terror of your discipline, nursie.”

“Behave yourself, Lieutenant,” Belle scolded, but she grinned despite herself.

Jefferson smiled, deftly pulling a book from the nearest pile on his table without overbalancing it. “You know whose side I’m on.”

She looked back to Rummond, speaking in a whisper to his sleeping form. “Ignore her. Today is a good day. You’re all right now, and there’s sunshine, and I can rightfully stay precisely where I am for hours yet.” She lifted a hand to brush his hair back, her fingers stroking a lock of grey into the half curl it always tended to make against his neck.

Rummond surfaced again between tea and dinner. He seemed to have been watching her for a few moments when she glanced away from the book to find his eyes on her.

“Good afternoon,” she said, and she waited to see what would come out of his mouth.

He hummed. “I can see your face.”

Well, he appeared a bit more coherent, if not completely clear headed. “No surgical mask,” she told him.

Rummond seemed to cast around a little for thoughts. “I’m not dead,” he said after a minute, and a thoroughly dotty grin curled at his lips. “You didn’t let me die.”

Belle leaned over her lap, wrapping both of her hands around his arm. “Of course I didn’t let you die, you silly man,” she said softly.

He managed a muffled and garbled, “Thank you,” before promptly falling back to sleep.

Dr. Whale came in to check on Rummond in the evening, before he left the hospital for the weekend. Belle vacated her chair and the doctor took it, moving blankets and gown so that he could pull back the incision’s dressing enough to see.

“Nice healthy color, not too much bruising,” he deemed as he moved the gauze back into place. “And I do believe those are as perfect as sutures get. There shouldn’t be too thick a scar.”

Belle raised an eyebrow behind his back, but it was lowered again when the doctor stood and turned to her.

“He’s been awake?” Dr. Whale asked.

“A few times, briefly,” she acknowledged.

“He’s coming along fine. We’ll keep an eye on that fever, though.”

“Of course, doctor.”

His check in on his patient was quick, and Belle thought there could have been a bit more as far as bedside manner went, but she was happy with his findings.

She’d prepared another syringe, and she was keeping an eye on the time when Rummond shifted a little beneath his covers. His brow drew and he released a tense breath.

“How do you feel?” she asked when he opened his eyes again, curling her hand around his so that he would know she was there.

“Sore. Thirsty,” he croaked, squinting up at her. “Cold.”

“If you think you can stay awake long enough, I’ll get you a cup of water,” she offered.

“I’ll be here,” Rummond said, but the drowsy look about him made his claim a bit questionable.

Belle patted his hand and went to fetch the promised water. When she returned, his eyelids were drooping and he fought to stay awake.

“Here,” she said as she sat at the edge of the chair. She slid a hand behind his head to help him take a drink.

After a couple of sips of water, he rested his head back on the pillow. She let her hand move to his cheek, stroking there with the back of her fingers. Rummond leaned into her touch, nuzzling her hand. He seemed absolutely unself-conscious, and she simply enjoyed it for a moment.

He looked up at her. “I thought you were going to get some sleep.”

“We’ve already had that discussion this morning,” she reminded him with a smile.

“Oh.” He leaned into her hand a bit more. “How did it end?”

“With me telling you I’d gotten quite enough and you not badgering me about it.”

“Mm. I had a feeling.”

Belle looked down at her watch. “It’s nearly time for another dose of morphine. We could go ahead, if you’re in pain?”

“It’ll put me back to sleep.” Rummond shook his head a little. “Not yet. I want to stay with you a bit longer.”

“A bit longer, then. As long as you aren’t hurting too badly.” She would have to leave him in the night nurse’s care in only a couple of hours, and spending as much of that time as she could with him awake sounded wonderful. “How about I read to you a little?” she asked, turning back to the pages he’d left his bookmark in.


	84. The Whole and More Than All

Belle had gone home, had a bath before dinner, and indulged in playing with Neal on the floor of his room for a while before tucking him into bed. With the last few sentences she had read to him fresh in her thoughts, she’d retreated to her own room and proceeded to cry herself to sleep out of relief that Rummond was all right. As far as the surgery and his new lack of appendix went, at least. She gave herself time to feel how frightened she’d been.

It was Ruby who had the Friday night shift, and Belle knew that her friend would take care of Rummond. Ruby could put on the act of being a flibbertigibbet when she wanted, but she was a professional, and she didn’t neglect her patients. Belle had traded her day off for Ruby’s Saturday shift. She _had_ told Mrs. Potts that she would have all of Saturday to catch up on sleep, but she found herself too unwilling to leave Rummond for so long so soon after having had surgery.

Mrs. Potts had responded by waking her up a bit late, giving her just enough time to have a bite of breakfast and get to work in time to clock in. Saturday was much the same as Friday, sans the drama of an operating theatre. Rummond slept for most of her shift. She spent some time adjusting the dosage of his morphine so that he could stay awake for longer periods while being comfortable at the same time.

She couldn’t spend another entire day by his side, but the ward was reasonably calm and she sat with him when she could. His fever broke in the afternoon, and she was glad of it. She knew how anxious to see Neal he was, and a lingering fever would make him feel badly enough to mar his enjoyment of his son’s visit.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

He didn’t have a great deal to do with his time. He wasn’t yet allowed to sit straight up, and his stomach proved too narrow to lay out any sort of arrangement of cards on. His concentration, at least, was good enough that he could read a bit. Between his efforts and Belle’s, they’d gotten through a good seven chapters of _The Voyage Out_ \- mostly thanks to her reading aloud to him. Rummond found himself doing mental exercises to pass the time and occupy his mind. He counted the ceiling beams and the boards between them, and then tried finding patterns in the grain of the wood. He practiced identifying nurses’ footsteps before they came into view. He quietly hummed to himself all of the pieces of music that he knew, beginning to end as well as he could. And he began to wonder if it were truly possible to die of boredom.

He looked forward to the few minutes at a time that Belle could spend with him. He’d been too addled and dozy to properly appreciate the full day of her presence, and that didn’t seem quite fair. Still, he hadn’t expected her to sacrifice her day off for him, appreciative as he was that she did. She’d gone even further above and beyond than usual over the last few days.

Belle had been the last thing he’d seen when he was put under, and the first thing when he woke. He was grateful for that; it had provided him with something familiar and needed to immediately grasp to. She’d promised to stay with him, and she had.

She hadn’t given him a single ‘I told you so’ about the surgery going well or needled him about his fears. Not once had she done anything less than show him kindness and understanding. That shouldn’t have been remarkable, he supposed, knowing what he knew of her. He felt a little guilty that it surprised him. It was only that he hadn’t been on the receiving end of much kindness of late. Receiving it from anyone was still a bit of a novelty.

After she’d clocked out and before she left for the night, Belle sat with him for a good hour to get him up to date on everything that his son had chattered about over the past couple of evenings. They discussed what she would tell Neal the next morning and agreed on a gentle variation of the truth paired with reassurance that he was just fine. His son’s life had already been shaken around too much to place the fear of losing his father on him, as well.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

On the ride from home to the hospital, Neal thought over and over about what Belle said while she was helping him get dressed. She’d said his Papa had something that hurt inside his belly, and the doctor had to go in to fix it. She told him that everything was okay, it was all getting better, but he would have to be careful with his Papa today. 

He frowned behind his scarf, rubbing his mittened hands together.

Neal had been a little scared when Belle told him. He wasn’t quite sure what it meant, that his Papa had to have surgery. But he gathered from the way Belle talked to him that it hurt, too, and would go on hurting for a while. So he had to be careful when he went in, instead of hopping into his Papa’s lap the way he always did. 

He didn’t run ahead of Belle when they got up the hospital steps. He walked next to her despite _all of him_ wanting to take off toward his Papa. He knew how to be good, and still, and quiet, and he would be all of them today.

“Go on, darling,” Belle said as they got to the ward doors. “I’m going to go and make a cup of tea. You go on in. Remember what we talked about?”

He nodded, and she gave his shoulder an encouraging nudge with her hand. 

Rummond sat at the slight incline that Nurse Lucas allowed him, two pillows propped behind his back, when Neal came in. With a heavier winter coat, hat, mittens, and a scarf wound around his mouth, all that Rummond could see of his son were a pair of brown eyes. He braced himself for his son’s leap, but Neal approached slowly, walking clear around to the other side of the bed. He realized that Belle must have given a few instructions.

“Come on,” he said, holding out his hand. 

Climbing carefully onto the side of the bunk, his son kneeled up next to him. He said something from behind his scarf, and Rummond couldn’t make out a muffled word he was saying. Reaching out, he took Neal’s hat and mittens.

“I’d better be certain that’s my duckling under all of this…” he said with a grin, beginning to unwind Neal from his scarf. “Dear, oh dear, I hope I haven’t gotten someone else’s child by mistake.”

By the time Neal had been freed from his layers, he was giggling. Rummond tossed his son’s things toward the foot of the bed, and he wrapped the little boy up in a sound hug.

After a few moments and some clinging on both sides, Neal leaned back in his Papa’s arms. He turned his head a bit to give his father a slightly sidelong look. “Belle said you were hurt inside, but you’re okay now?”

“I’m okay,” Rummond reassured his son, rubbing the boy’s back with the flat of his hand.

Neal gave him what could only be described as an appraising look. “Really, really okay?”

“I am. I’m really, really okay.” Rummond smiled, waiting until Neal relaxed against him to press a kiss to the boy’s cheek. His son returned it immediately.

Belle came in with a cup of tea in one hand and the usual picnic basket in the other, and she was glad to find Neal settled in against his father’s left side. Setting the basket on Rummond’s footlocker, she lifted the lid to take out a small sheaf of papers.

“Would you like these?” she asked, handing them to Neal. He took them eagerly and tapped the bottom of the stack against his legs.

Rummond smiled up at her. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” she responded, her palm cradling his cheek for a moment while Neal was sorting out which piece of art to first show his father.

He raised the hand not occupied with his son, taking hers and giving it a squeeze before she pulled the chair close to his bed and sat down. She listened to Neal and watched Rummond’s reactions while the boy began telling him how the edges of the lake on the way to school had started to freeze overnight. 

As they talked over what his favorite character in the book Belle read to him at bedtime was doing and the new desks his schoolroom had gotten, she noticed Rummond glancing to her every once in a while with a bit of an apprehensive expression. When they’d finished with Neal’s drawings, she asked, “Is something the matter? 

“Hm? No, nothing wrong.” He hesitated under her evaluating gaze before telling her. “I’m hungry…”

Belle felt the astonished look develop on her face before she could stop it. She could have jumped up and down with happiness at what might’ve been the simplest thing in the world to anyone else.

“I’ve brought broth,” she offered quickly, deciding to unpack part of their picnic early.

“I’d prefer something I can _chew,_ if I’m allowed,” Rummond told her. “It gets tedious, drinking one’s meals.”

“No solids quite yet, I’m afraid,” she said, though she wished that she _could_ give him something more. “It’s liquids only for a few more days, but I think we can move on from clear broth.”

She’d brought egg and pickle sandwiches along for Neal and herself rather than walnut so that he wouldn’t be too tempted. Mrs. Potts had saved some of the rich sauce from the stew she’d made for the previous night’s dinner, thinning it down just a bit with broth for Belle to take to her patient. She unlatched the lid and wrapped the little pot in a half-folded napkin to keep it from being too hot on his hands or chest, and she passed it to him along with a spoon. 

Rummond moved his arm from around Neal so that he could feed himself, and his son scooted in more closely in response. She handed him a sandwich and a cookie to occupy him while his father ate. Mouths busy, both were quiet for a little while. Once Neal finished the triangle of sandwich, he snuggled in as far as he could and still be able to eat his cookie. She found herself wanting badly to be right in there with them.

Belle had arrived on the verge of obscenely early, as had become her wont on Sundays, and she’d been there for half an hour before even the priest and nuns arrived. A few other early visitors trickled in after them. She saw hurried movement from the corner of her eye, and she looked to see Nurse Novak flitting onto the ward.

Astrid’s first stop was Leroy’s bed. She stood there for a moment, leaning to speak near Leroy’s ear. When she leaned back, his face was lit up more brightly than Belle had ever seen him. Astrid hurried away again, this time toward the back of the room, stopping next to the priest who took up station on the ward every Sunday. After another moment, the two of them walked back to Leroy’s bed, Astrid talking and smiling the entire way. Belle looked on curiously as Astrid perched on the edge of the bed and the priest stood near them, the three speaking quietly for a bit longer before he left them to return to the patient he’d been speaking with before.

 _Interesting_ was the only word Belle could apply to the quick meeting she’d witnessed. 

Once Rummond finished his broth, she put the container away and patted his knee. “I’ll be right back. Going to wash my hands,” she said, excusing herself before she stepped away. 

She scrubbed them well, considering how she might best convince Neal to leave his father’s side long enough that she could check Rummond. It wasn’t until she returned the sliver of red soap to its box that an idea came to her.

“Do you remember which lady Nurse Lucas is?” she asked Neal as she resumed her seat, and he nodded. “Would you go and tell her that I asked if you can help her find a new bar of carbolic soap for the ward washroom for me? She’s right over there.” Belle pointed toward Ruby’s regular section of beds.

Neal looked up at his father. “I’ll still be here when you come back,” Rummond said, running a hand over the back of his son’s hair as he slid down to the floor. When Neal had trotted off, he looked to Belle. “I assume you needed to get me alone?”

“I want to check your incision,” she said, folding his layers of blankets back.

“How long will it be before I can be up and around, do you think?”

“Oh, you can go back and forth to the washroom in a couple of days, when you’re a little more healed together. It’ll be around three weeks before you’ve healed through and through. _If_ you behave yourself, you’ll be just fine by Christmas.”

That was something, at least, that he’d be well before Christmas. He didn’t enjoy the thought of being even more limited than he already was while attempting to enjoy the day with Neal and Belle.

“I’m not allowed up from my bunk for so much as a-” He stopped, thinking better of it, and lowered his voice. “They’re making me use a urinal bottle.”

“Yes, which is what _everyone_ who’s just been through major surgery uses. Well, the men do.” Belle smiled, shifting up to the edge of her chair, and pulled the side of his gown above the dressing.

Rummond glanced around before he whispered to her. “It would be nice to have a pair of underthings back, as well.”

She pressed her lips together to smother most of a grin. “That I believe we can accomplish tomorrow.”

“How is it?” he asked, craning his neck as though he could see from his position.

“A bit pink, but not inflamed,” she said. “Still healing well.”

“When can I have the stitches out?”

Belle gave him a bit of an incredulous look. “You’ve barely had them for a full day yet.”

He nodded. “And I already want them out.”

“Two weeks,” she told him. _“At least._ Perhaps three.”

“Three weeks of petting a shoddy set of someone’s quilting in my side,” he grumbled. He shifted a little to get a look at them, his hand moving toward the incision.

“My, we _must_ feel better this morning! You’re getting mouthy again,” she said, but she let her grin show as she guided his hand gently but insistently away. “Don’t touch it. And they aren’t shoddy.”

“They aren’t yours.”

Belle tucked the hem of his gown back down and pulled his covers into place again. “You can tell?”

“Of course I can tell. I’d your stitches in my hand for more than a week,” he reminded her. “Yours are closer together. More even. And they didn’t pucker a bit.”

She was proud that he noticed the difference. “Well, still. We’ll get as close to three weeks as we can, won’t we?”

“You took the ones in my hand out quicker than that.”

“The cut in your hand was very minor in comparison. Besides which, no one had to go in and take a piece of your hand out, either.”

He grumbled quietly, yielding to her argument. She saw a smile overtake his irritation, and guessed that Neal was on his way back from his task. 

“How did it go?” she asked as he came up beside her with one last, hopping step.

“Nurse Lucas gave me a box of soap and told me to put it on the sink shelf,” Neal told her, leaning on her as she curled an arm around him. “And I did.”

“Wonderful,” she said. “You were so helpful! Careful, or someone might hire you on as an orderly.”

He beamed, ducking his head. Once his bashfulness at her praise passed, he stuck a hand into her apron pocket in search of candy. Rummond cleared his throat softly. 

Neal froze, raising his eyebrows as he remembered. “May I have a piece of candy?”

Belle smiled down at him. “Yes, you may.”

He leaned nearly into her lap, pulling her pocket open so that he could peer inside, since he now had permission, to find just the piece of candy he wanted.

It made something squeeze around Rummond’s heart to see the way his son and Belle were with one another - a sweet ache that made him oddly hopeful. It was something he wanted to see so much more of.

Neal went around the end of the bunk, his hand patting along the edge of the footlocker there as he passed it, and came back to climb up next to his father again.

Rummond was staring at Belle when she looked back to him, catching him at it. The corner of his mouth pulled up into an adoring smile. “I love you,” he whispered to her.

She reached over, the answering smile on her face so big it very nearly closed her eyes as she found his hand and threaded her fingers between his. She flicked a look to Neal, who appeared to be absorbed in untwisting the paper to get at the bit of hard caramel candy inside.

“I love you,” she returned just as quietly.

The day went well, and he was as comfortable as possible, given the new slice into his insides. They had the remaining contents of the picnic basket nearer lunchtime, and it turned out that Belle - ever well-prepared - had a second pot of broth for him. It was difficult to resist begging for even just a _piece_ of bread, to give him some sort of texture more than smooth liquid. 

When Belle had to clock in for her shift, he gathered Neal onto the left half of his lap and held him close to talk. “You know, I think I like Nurse Belle very much… Do _you_ like her?”

“I like her very much, too,” Neal said, his eyes wide as he gave his Papa a quick nod. “She’s nice. She helps me when I need help with anything, and she reads to me. She gives hugs. She-” He stopped, thinking, having trouble putting into words all he wanted to say. He resorted to saying again, “She’s _nice.”_

“She is,” Rummond agreed. “She’s very nice.”

Neal smiled, leaning into his father’s chest and shoulder. “She makes me happy.”

Rummond looked down at his son, his throat feeling a bit too tight and his eyes stinging a little. “She makes me happy, too.”

“David! I can’t just keep Emma here at the hospital today!” he heard from the front of the ward. 

He looked, and he felt Neal leaning to look, as well. Nurse Nolan stood just inside the doors. Her husband, little girl in tow, followed her.

“Well, I can’t exactly take her up in a plane with me,” David said.

Nurse Nolan frowned at him. “You _said_ you weren’t flying today.” 

“I thought I wasn’t.” He sighed. “I have a supply run to Canvey Island. The pilot who was supposed to take it turned up ill. It’s a quick run. I’ll be back before Emma’s bedtime.”

“Can’t you just do it tomorrow?” she asked, her expression drawn with the inconvenience.

He gave her a perturbed look. “Well, I suppose I could, if half the cargo wasn’t medical supplies.”

His wife, flustered, dropped her hands by her sides. “Fine. Leave her here. She’ll play and have eyes on her. The ward is full of nurses,” she said, fluttering a dismissive hand at him before she hurried off toward the task he’d apparently taken her away from.

David stared after her in annoyance at the way she stalked off, Emma tugging at his hand.

“Corporal Nolan?” Rummond called, drawing his attention and waving a hand to beckon him over.

The Corporal’s smile was a bit tired. “Captain Gold,” he greeted, walking across to Rummond’s bunk. His daughter still pulled at him.

“She’ll be all right,” Rummond assured him. “The children play together and occupy themselves, for the most part. It’ll be easy enough to watch her. There’s never a nurse more than a dozen paces away, in pinch.”

“You’re sure?” David asked, but he finally let go of Emma’s hand.

She ran around the bed to Neal. He smiled at first, but he was a little taken aback when she hurtled up to the bedside.

“No!” he told her. “You have to be careful today!”

“Come play with me,” she demanded brightly, her expression quite obviously expectant that he would agree.

Neal looked from Emma to his father, then back to her again. “I’m staying with my Papa today…”

Her wide smile fell into a determined little pucker. “Then I’ll come play with you.”

Neal looked up at his Papa again.

“Why don’t you go and play, duckling? I’ll be all right, hm?” Rummond said, but Neal still stuck by his side.

“You’re a, ah, commercial pilot?” he asked the Corporal, then added apologetically, “Couldn’t help overhearing.”

David nodded, his smile turning sheepish as he looked back at the door that his wife had disappeared through. “Yeah. Flying around whatever needs shipping.”

“That’s good work. Steady.”

“It gets me in the air,” David said with a grin.

Rummond knew the feeling.

David looked as if he wanted to say something. He hesitated for a second before finally asking. “Hey, maybe you can help me. You remember the biplane I’m working on?”

“I recall,” Rummond said with a nod.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where I might be able to dig up an intact Jenny propeller, would you? I’m having a hell of a time finding one.”

“There’s a RFC boneyard just outside Moretonhampstead. Good number of allied planes ended up there. You’re still in good graces with the locals - they’d likely let you scavenge a bit.”

After thinking over his father’s permission and his own feelings about it, Neal hopped down to go play with Emma right next to the bed. He knelt and she plopped down on the tile in front of him, heedless of how the ruffles of her dress were kicked up over her knees as she folded her legs in front of her. After a few minutes of debate over what they would do, Neal raised up and tugged at his Papa’s blanket.

“Papa? Can we play with your cards?” he asked. “I’ll take care of them.”

Rummond reached over for the pack where it sat on top of his book, passing them to his son. He watched closely once Corporal Nolan left, wondering what the two of them would do. As far as he knew, Neal didn’t have any card games down yet, and he couldn’t imagine that Emma knew any. 

His curiosity was solved when Neal began balancing cards together in pairs, teaching Emma how to build a house from them.

“Let me try!” she squealed, reaching across to take some of the cards from the deck next to him. Whether it was a bump or she’d disturbed the air, the precarious little house folded in on itself. She pulled a face at the pile as she sat back again. “Sorry.”

Neal only smiled, beginning to sort the cards into a stack. “It’s okay. You can help me make a better one.”


	85. Out from Its Hiding Place

“Good afternoon, ladies,” Dr. Coughlan said with a quick and winsome smile as he turned the corner from the foyer, headed their way.

Caught unawares and a bit startled, Belle was unable to find a response. Ruby, however, didn’t miss a beat as she replied, “Good afternoon, doctor.”

“I do hope you’re prepared for an inspection,” the doctor told them cheerfully as they passed in the corridor.

Belle found her voice in time to say a confident, “Always, doctor.”

The pair of nurses traded a look once he’d gone by, and Belle glanced back over her shoulder at him. They hadn’t been told anything about an inspection. There had been no briefing, and certainly not enough time had passed to warrant another. It was enough to set her worrying why he’d returned so soon after tying up his investigation.

“Hah!” Ruby chirped in amusement. “Looks like Nurse Mills will be out of our hair for a few days.”

“What about an inspection makes you think she’ll be anywhere other than our hair?” Belle pressed her lips together in an irritated line, fishing through her pocket for a piece of treacle toffee as they made their way toward the kitchen.

Ruby had been on her way down to fetch a cup of tea for one of her patients, and Belle decided to go along to ask whether Zelda might have something soft that Rummond could eat. He was doing well enough to have something more than liquids, but nothing yet so taxing on his system as the usual tray.

 _“Well,_ I strongly suspect that it isn’t so much an official inspection as it is a visit for… amorous purposes,” Ruby told her with a broad, bright red smirk.

Belle stared over at her friend for a second before dismay settled into her expression. “You’re sure?”

 _“Quite_ sure. As near positive as I can be without catching the two of them at it.” Ruby pulled a face of her own at the idea, but it passed. “She’s been getting love letters from him for _months.”_

“Oh. I wish I didn’t know that.” Belle shook her head. She could recall, though, seeing Nurse Mills with the odd piece of paper and a pleased look. The way the head nurse behaved when Dr. Coughlan was in some proximity to her began to make more sense, as well.

“Any luck, and maybe she’ll be a little genial for a few days.”

“You can stop, now. You really can.”

Ruby laughed, linking her arm through Belle’s. “To be having a steamy romance of your own going, you certainly are prim.”

“I am not prim. Not wishing to hear the details of that woman’s love life doesn’t make me prim. It makes me picky about the images that gallop through my mind,” Belle reasoned. “And- _steamy?”_

“Oh, please. I have eyes. I can see the way you look at one another.”

“You didn’t even realize it was happening until I told you who I was- was-“

“‘Celebrating’ with?” Ruby grinned.

Belle rolled her eyes a bit.

“And I remember figuring that part out for myself, thank you. I knew there was _someone.”_ Ruby nodded in decisive agreement with herself. “At which point I started paying attention.”

“I _was_ under the impression that we’d been subtler than that.” It still gave Belle a strange feeling, knowing that likely every nurse in the hospital and half the patients on their ward knew and simply didn’t talk about it.

“Subtle you are not. Neither of you. Not that keeping something like that a secret in a place like this is easy, anyway.” Ruby chuckled lightly. “It’s nice to see you head over heels. It’s a good look on you. And on him, too. Far better than the usual…” She put on an overdone scowl.

Belle scoffed. “Oh, he was never that bad.”

Ruby raised her eyebrows. “He was a grump and a half. At least the two of you getting together got rid of the half.”

“He’s going through some awful things,” Belle reminded, though she thought she shouldn’t have to. “If he’s a ‘grump’ sometimes, it’s understandable.”

Ruby hummed, letting go of the debate there. After a moment, she observed, “You never looked like this over Donat.”

“For good reason,” Belle told her firmly.

“I only mean, I understand now why you broke the engagement. Even beyond not enjoying, you know, being intimate with him. Money and name make up for a _lot_ of things lacking, but they’re no substitute for the feeling that comes with that look.” Ruby tugged on Belle’s arm, making the two of them stagger gently into one another. “I’m happy for you.”

“Thank you.” Belle smiled over at her. “I’m pretty happy for me, too.”

Ruby was quick about making the cup of tea she’d been after, but Belle waited while Zelda prepared a bit of porridge. She spiced it up with a bit of apple butter and cinnamon, hoping that it would appeal to Rummond more than the water toast that had been meant to serve as his breakfast. He’d eaten half of it, spoonful by spoonful, and set it aside with another disappointed grumble about that _not_ being what he meant by something he could chew.

On her way back to the ward, Belle decided she’d ask Mrs. Potts to roast a chicken on Saturday. She could save a portion to bring along in their picnic. Rummond would be back to real food by then, and she thought he would enjoy the change from sandwiches. She was still considering the rest of the basket when she went in and found his bed empty.

She was looking toward the washroom when Corporal Knight left it, dashing her hopes that Rummond had only stepped away for a few minutes. Frowning, she turned her attention to Lieutenant Hargreaves.

“Around ten minutes ago,” he said before she could ask, glancing to the ward door.

Belle set the hot bowl of porridge on Rummond’s table. “Was he all right?”

Jefferson shook his head. “Not the worst I’ve seen him, but he was more than a bit overwrought.”

“What happened?” she asked.

“With what’s going on with Prinsen, he was looking some peaky already, but Nurse Battle-Axe and Leroy got into a shouting match over something to do with Nurse Novak, and…” Jefferson imitated a muffled explosion. He gave her a look with one corner of his mouth pulled in annoyance. “Nurse Nolan fetched her away for something and Captain Gold slipped out right after.”

Belle turned to go and find him. It hadn’t been the best of days for Rummond, to begin with. She’d been keeping an eye on him since the early part of the morning, when it became obvious that intervention was necessary for Commander Prinsen.

She’d wondered whether Prinsen’s situation would bring up unpleasant memories for Rummond. The Commander had begun turning away food a couple of days previous, after a particularly nasty breakdown, and Nurse Boyd had to report him despite his wife’s protests that she could talk him into eating. He’d been taken out mid-morning for force feeding, and though he hadn’t put up a fight, a furious Mrs. Prinsen had. It had taken Ruby and Ashley both to calm her and keep her from following. Rummond had been rather quiet during and since. She wasn’t terribly surprised he’d needed to leave the ward.

Belle headed for his hiding place, keeping her eyes and ears open for Nurse Mills or any of her toads. The head nurse’s office light was on when she went by, so she could trust that the halls were safe as far as that went. Nurse Lind only gave her a glance and a smile as she went to let herself into the storage room.

She locked the door, stepping around the shelves to see him. He sat with his head leaning back against the wall, eyes squeezed shut, drawing quick, uneven breaths. His tension was almost palpable in the room. He hadn’t even taken the time to bring out a blanket.

“Rummond?” she said softly as she approached.

His response amounted to opening his eyes. She sat next to him, kneeling close enough that her knees pressed against his thigh. He didn’t flinch. Belle was glad of that much sticking through this, at least.

“Rum, take a deep breath and-”

“I’m _trying,”_ he said, and there was a hysterical edge to his voice.

She reached over, taking his hand and freeing it from where it held onto a fistful of his gown. Immediately, he clung to her hand, and she could feel him shake. She tried to lend what comfort she could by stroking the hair over his temple. 

“Is there anything you need?” she asked, and he shook his head just enough that she could see it. 

Belle moved off her knees to sit against his side, sliding her arm through his and holding onto him. It took a while, but his panic eventually faded enough that he could breathe the way she taught him, and he managed to bring himself down further. 

“Haven’t had one of those in a little while,” he said, still breathing a bit shakily. “Thought I might’ve been over them. So much for that.”

“Was it Commander Prinsen?” she asked.

He shrugged the shoulder that she didn’t lean on. “Partially. I suppose.”

“And the commotion that Nurse Mills caused?”

“You heard, hm?”

“Lieutenant Hargreaves filled me in.”

“I suppose I’m bit on edge today,” he said, and she wished there wasn’t so much apology in his voice. “Even before Prinsen.”

“Together it was all just enough to set you off.” She tightened her arm around his, knowing how it built up for him. “I know you needed to get away from the ward, and there wasn’t much else you could do, but you shouldn’t be up and around so much just yet.” Belle looked up at him to find him looking askance at her. “Your stitches.”

“I might have pulled them a bit…” he confessed quietly.

His hand gradually stopped shaking in hers. She reached slowly up to turn the collar of his hospital gown correctly, where it had been unfolded in some fidgeting movement, she was certain. “Come on, I’ll have a look.”

Belle reached for his cane and gave it to him, standing so that she could give him her hand as leverage up, as well. “Give me some of your weight this time,” she told him, knowing his habit of holding her hand without doing so. “Take the strain off your incision.”

This once, he did as she said, putting his weight on his cane and her hand as he allowed her to help him. She guided him over to the stool at the counter near the front of the room, tugging his gown up. He had the waist of his underwear folded down so that it didn’t press against the dressing and irritate the wound - she hadn’t told him to, and she was glad he’d thought of it on his own.

She pulled the gauze dressing away enough to see behind it. “Well, you haven’t reopened it, really. But you _did_ pull at the stitches.” 

A couple of the middle ones really could have used replacing. The strain on them had made him bleed a little around them. She prodded carefully around the area on his hip, her hands not being clean enough in her estimation to touch closer to the incision itself.

Rummond watched her with soft eyes, concentrating on her face rather than her hands. 

“It looks as if I’ll get a few of my stitches in you, after all,” she told him with a teasing smile. “I’ll do them on the ward, though.”

“You’ve got far more than a few stitches in me,” he murmured as she brought the dressing back into place.

Belle grinned up at him. “Ooh, and you haven’t even the excuse of morphine for that one.”

He ducked his head, a little cringe creasing between his eyes. “Aye, Hargreaves has made certain to bring it to my attention I’d bled off at the mouth a bit after surgery.”

Her smile twitched. “Just a bit.”

“I didn’t say anything off-color, did I?” he asked quietly.

“Hargreaves hasn’t told you?” she teased.

“I believe he hasn’t yet unloaded the fullness of that arsenal.”

“He does like to draw it out.” She dropped a kiss on his cheek before standing up straight again. “You needn’t worry. Nothing you said was offensive.”

Rummond turned his face up to her. “Good. That’s good, then.”

“I actually quite appreciated the things you said.” Belle smiled at the way his expression went a bit shy. “They were sweet.”

“Did you, now?” he asked, more sincerity than teasing in his tone. “You’ll have to tell me which parts, so I can say them again.”

She rested her hands in the curves of his shoulders near his neck, leaning down to kiss him. She kissed him twice - lingering once to hold his lower lip between hers, and then catching another, shorter kiss.

“We should get back, if you’re feeling well enough?” she said at last. “Apparently there’s to be an inspection.”

Rummond’s look of bewitchment fled. “That Coughlan is back?”

She hated to have been the bearer of disappointing news. “He is. I have it on rather good authority, though, that his business here isn’t so much with the hospital itself as with a certain head nurse. The inspection seems only to be a convenient excuse.”

“Nurse Mills?” He raised an eyebrow. “The man must have a steely constitution indeed.”

Belle snickered, though she did her best to hide it. She hadn’t a bit of room to judge or scold him, having had similar thoughts.

They returned to the ward, her hand in his for a small part of the way. An orderly from another wing was silent enough leaving the north corridor as they passed it to surprise them into simply walking side by side.

“You’re feeling better?” she asked as she ushered him back in.

“I’m fine,” he told her, giving her a smile before they crossed the threshold into the ward. He still seemed a little pale from his upset, to her eyes.

She had no more than gotten him sitting on his bed when Dr. Coughlan and Nurse Mills came striding in. 

There was far less formality to the doctor’s ‘inspection’ than the first time he’d come around. Dr. Coughlan asked no questions of anyone, and the head nurse didn’t provide any jabs that might provoke a response from a patient. The entire thing took half the time of a proper inspection. After what Belle felt was quite obviously a perfunctory walk of the ward with the head nurse, they left again. She watched them go, a bit incredulous that they had barely done enough to make it seem an official visit.

If they were carrying on an affair - as it did seem they were, all evidence lain out - Belle thought it more than a little distasteful. Particularly since they weren’t making much of an attempt at hiding it. She hadn’t failed to notice that the doctor still wore his wedding ring. She couldn’t know the whole of the story, of course, and perhaps there _was_ more to it than she thought, but she did wonder how both he and the head nurse justified themselves.

Rummond pulled his feet from his slippers and rested back on his bed, leaning into his pillow. The wince around his eyes told her that it was time for his medicine even before she checked her watch.

“It hurts? More than usual around this time?” she asked.

“It does,” he admitted with some reluctance. 

“That would be because you weren’t meant to be traipsing up and down the corridors yet.” She sighed a little, searching up a peppermint from her pocket and offering it to him. When he took the other end of the paper, she gave it a little tug before letting him take it. “It’s near enough time for your morphine. I’m going to fetch supplies to clean up your incision and re-dress it, and I’ll give you your dose before we do that.”

“An excellent plan,” he agreed, sounding weary.

His dose had been lowered again, providing just enough to take the bite from his pain without drugging him to sleep. Paired with his nightly quinine, it did seem to help him rest, though. It might not last once he was taken off morphine altogether, but it was nice to see him getting enough sleep for perhaps the first time since he’d been admitted.

“I needed to get away,” he said before she could turn to go. “I couldn’t help that.”

“I know you did.” She touched his hand, curling her fingers over into his palm for a few moments. She smiled that he justified his need to seek quiet, instead of faulting himself for it as she’d heard him do on so many occasions. “I do understand, as I said. I’m not fussing out of anger.”

His answering smile was hesitant, but she was glad to have that much. He gave her hand a squeeze before she went for supplies.

Belle didn’t wish for the ward to always be peaceful - that was perhaps too greedy a wish. She only wanted it to remain at a low enough level of chaos that Rummond could and would stay put until he’d healed sufficiently. It couldn’t be _that_ difficult, could it? The year was approaching Christmas, and good things were supposed to come of this time. One never knew what the new year might hold, but all she asked was a little calm, and a few of those good things for herself and Rummond.


	86. Finding, Keeping

Nurses and orderlies balanced at the tops of stepladders off and on over the course of the day, hanging fresh greenery and other decorations in an attempt at making the ward feel festive. They were doing an admirable job of it. There was at last more evidence than the increasing chill in the air that Christmas approached.

The greenery had been delivered that morning along with a towering blue spruce, the garlands and wreaths laid out on the few unoccupied beds of the east ward. It had all been paid for and donated by some generous-feeling hospital benefactor, and the staff had seemed as pleased to see it as the patients. The tree itself was screwed into a stand and stationed next to the doors, waiting ’til last to be trimmed.

Orderlies had been sent to pull boxes of baubles out from storage, and the nurses had set willing patients about making adornments, as well. Nurse Lucas had given a soldier on her side of the ward the materials to string cranberries and popcorn into garland for the tree and winding around the support posts down the center of the room. Belle had searched up a bottle of mucilage and a box full of colorful paper strips to put Lieutenant Hargreaves to work making paper chains, and she’d given Anton an idea to knit snowflakes (at which point Jezek grumbled that it wasn’t as if the real thing wouldn’t clog up the weather soon enough). A good half the ward had been busied with some little task or other.

She’d asked Rummond if he might repair some of the pairs of red and white velvet roses that were meant to go in the greenery and wreaths, and there was no way he could have said no, even had he wanted to. They were quite old, as was the case with most of the decorations, and the petals were coming unsewn. It was an easy thing, accustomed as he was to small work and mending. He propped himself up against pillows to take any strain off his incision and sorted the flowers out by severity of wear.

“What _sort_ of angel is Nurse French, then?” Jefferson asked, holding the ends of a slip of paper together while he waited for the mucilage to dry enough that he could set it aside in a growing pile of links. He grinned, looking over at Rummond. “Guardian? Avenging? Might she be one of the Powers? She _is_ quite the warrior nurse…”

Rummond gave his bunkmate a bit of a glare, though there wasn’t much anger behind it, really. “That would be none of your business,” he said, picking loose the old thread at the base of a red petal.

“I’m merely attempting to clarify.” Jefferson set his new link aside and poked through the box for an appropriate color. He sent a sidelong look and a smirk over toward Rummond. “She does look lovely in blue, though, I’ll agree with you there.”

“Beginning to wish I’d something more damaging to throw than a wad of velvet,” Rummond muttered loudly enough to be heard, and the Lieutenant snickered.

Everything that could be placed on the walls by that point had been, and only the bits that patients worked on were yet to be hung up. Belle went over after directing Graham on hanging a wreath above the ward doors, settling herself on the chair that remained at Rummond’s bedside. 

She’d recruited Ariel to help her in sorting whole ornaments from those broken during storage, and they were waiting only until there were enough garlands strung to wrap the tree to begin decorating it. Evening was falling, and though they could have no candles on the tree, Ruby had called her grandmother to bring strings of the little round, lacquered Christmas bulbs she’d bought stacks of in London while she’d been wedding dress shopping. Graham was currently having a look around the hospital, figuring out something that he could rig up to connect all of the strings to the electricity there on the ward.

She took one of the pairs of flowers that Rummond had finished with, taking it to arrange the petals with her fingers. “You’ve nearly finished,” she said, turning it over to admire his stitchwork. “Thank you for mending them.”

“It’s no trouble at all.” He smiled over at her, pulling a stitch snug. “If it’s trouble you want…” He tilted his head toward Hargreaves.

“Trouble?” the Lieutenant said, a note of playful indignation in his voice. “This is merely a bit of _friendly_ ribbing, I’ll have you know.”

“And when you rib him enough that he gives you an apple-pie bed the next time you’re off the ward, you can rest easy in the knowledge that Captain Gold is giving you a friendly gesture in return, can’t you?” Belle teased, grinning as she set the flowers down again. She rested her elbows on her knees, leaning a little nearer Rummond. “I’ll put them in the garland around the windows on this side, when you’ve done with them.”

It would be good for him, she thought, to see the parts of decoration he’d helped with. To have them there might be encouraging in the same way his work with pocketwatches was, and any amount of encouragement would help.

Rummond looped his needle through to finish attaching one of the bits of velvet with a knot, glancing up at Belle. He caught her watching him, and he returned the smile she gave before he looked away again.

He’d noticed that Belle was no longer sitting on his bunk. She hadn’t since the morning of his surgery, and he’d not _asked_ why, but he wondered. Each time she came over and placed herself in the little wooden chair again, he wondered. He had decided after the first couple of days that if she didn’t want to sit there with him, then he wouldn’t try to make her. Surely she had a good reason for it; he had his suspicions. She hadn’t stopped keeping company with him, though, and the fact of that was at last enough to tempt him into asking.

“Is it that you don’t want to look questionable, being too close here on the ward?” he said quietly as he gave the last of the roses a gentle toss over with the rest. 

“What?” she asked, blinking at him.

“I’d understand,” Rummond went on, not looking up at her as he put away his mending supplies. “With all the attention you gave me after the surgery, and the things I said… I’d understand if I made it a bit too evident for you to be comfortable.”

“Oh, Rummond, there was nothing wrong with anything you said. And it wasn’t heard by anyone who would use it unkindly.” Belle reached over, resting a hand just above his knee, and she waited until he turned his face to her. She wouldn’t tell him how many people had assumed about them anyway. It wouldn’t be helpful in the least.

“You don’t sit with me anymore,” he said, confessing his concern.

“I do sit with you,” she said, and she gave him a look of confusion. “I come over and sit with you for as long as I can every day.”

“No, I mean… You don’t sit _with_ me,” Rummond told her more quietly, sparing a quick look to the blanket next to his legs.

Belle’s mouth dropped open a little as his meaning occurred to her. She hadn’t considered that it might bother him, her sitting in the chair rather than with him. “I didn’t want to hurt you by jostling the bed, as often as I’m back and forth during the day.”

The corner of his mouth twitched toward a surprised smile. She was worried about hurting _him?_ “Neal did just fine sitting with me.”

“Yes, well.” Belle laughed a little. “Neal is a _bit_ smaller.”

“You won’t hurt me. You couldn’t, just sitting here,” Rummond assured her. He could live with a little pain, even if she did. She hesitated, and he had to push through a strange wave of shyness to ask her, “Come and sit with me? Haven’t I healed enough that you can?”

She pinched her lower lip between her teeth, looking at the space next to him that she usually occupied. She _did_ want to be there again. With a nod, she moved from the chair and placed herself carefully beside Rummond, and she could feel how pleased he was that she did.

Belle pulled her feet up, catching the heels of her shoes on the rail at the bottom edge of the bed. “Your son bade me bring you something today,” she said, taking a piece of paper from her apron pocket. She unfolded it from quarters before handing it to him, clasping her hands together to rest them on her knees when he took it. “I’m sorry, I forgot it in all the decoration excitement.”

It was filled with simple math, the most basic of addition and subtraction. The pencil writing wasn’t quite steady yet, and not written in straight lines besides, but the point was the message in fountain pen that looped across the top.

“Full marks?” Rummond said. He looked up at Belle, so proud that he could burst, and he could see pride in the way she beamed back at him, as well. He went back to the paper torn from his son’s school tablet, blinking quickly. “He got full marks.”

Neal had been having a good bit of trouble catching onto arithmetic, and he knew how Belle and her father both had been helping him at it. His son had finally grasped it with both hands, if the little page full of successful figuring was evidence.

“Tell him that his Papa is proud of him,” Rummond told her, nodding. “Give him a tight squeeze with it, and tell him that’s from his Papa, as well.”

“I will,” she promised, watching and thoroughly enjoying the happiness in his face as he studied the way his son formed his numbers.

Belle looked up as a woman in an expensive traveling suit striped in tan, blonde hair gathered into a complicated but fraying arrangement, stormed frantically onto the ward. Ruby, on her toes and blessedly nearby, stepped into the woman’s path.

She heard Ruby ask, “Ma’am? Ma’am, if you’ll just tell me who it is you’re looking for-”

The woman appeared not to have stopped anywhere between whatever traveling she might have done and her arrival at the hospital, frazzled and dark about the eyes as she was.

“Frederick Knight? Corporal Frederick Knight. You have him here on your ward, I know you do,” she said, her accent distinctly American and her voice trembling. She looked past Ruby with eyes wide and searching. “I’m Abigail Knight. I’m his _wife._ You have to let me see him!”

 _“Oh._ Oh my. Yes, he’s- second row, third bed.” Ruby gawped, but she stood aside to allow the woman by. She looked to Belle, trading a look of surprise for one of curiosity with her friend.

Barely enough seconds to count passed before the woman cried out, _“Frederick!”_

Belle stood, keeping next to Rummond’s bed, where she could look over and see them just past the post behind his headboard. Rummond turned carefully, trying to see them, as well.

The woman who called herself Corporal Knight’s wife very nearly tackled him, throwing her arms around his shoulders, and Belle could see her shaking with sobs. The Corporal, however, seemed to be in shock. It took him a moment to wrap his good arm around her.

“How did you find me?” were the first words from his mouth, and Belle hoped that emotion on both sides would keep them from landing hurtfully.

“I have _been_ looking for you!” Abigail Knight told him, seeming unfazed by his blurted question. She sat next to him, took his face in her hands and kissed him. “Two years, Frederick. _Two years_ without so much as a letter. And you’ve been in England the entire time?”

Knight looked nothing if not shamefaced.

“I hired a private investigator when you didn’t come home. You weren’t on your boat! I went back for _days,_ hoping you’d just-” She stopped, having to gather herself. “Do you know how worried I’ve been? How frightened I was?” 

His eyes pored over her face as though he were starving for the sight of her. “I rented a flat under an alias. How-?”

Abigail laughed. “You had to sign in here under your real name. I hadn’t a single word on you until you admitted yourself. My rounds of harassing the investigator about searching hospital records over and over proved fruitful.” She leaned, kissing his cheek, and Belle saw the Corporal’s hands come up to grasp at the sides of his wife’s dress. “I’d have been here the day I got his telephone call, if I thought I could sprout wings.”

“I’m sorry. Abby, I’m so- I wanted to protect you. That’s all I wanted.” Knight frowned, his chin trembling. “I thought you wouldn’t be forced to stay married to me, that way. You could have me declared dead, move on with your life…”

With one hand caught around the side of her husband’s neck, she lifted the other to the space where his arm should have been, her fingers careful and hesitant where it had been amputated at his shoulder and where his hospital gown sleeve was folded and safety pinned up. The tears she’d choked back to scold him began to fall again.

With not the least amount of venom in her words, she said, “How dare you think this would affect how I feel about you? How _dare_ you take away the choice to keep you with me?”

Every nurse on the ward and most of the patients had frozen and silenced to watch. Belle cried openly, herself, before she realized it. She dropped a hand down from where she’d clutched them to her chest, asking for Rummond to take it, and she was glad when he did. Her heart ached for Knight and his wife, and she wasn’t certain what she needed to give or receive by the holding of Rummond’s hand, but she needed it right away. He squeezed at her hand, and she felt as if he understood.

“I knew you’d be safe and taken care of,” Knight tried to reason, though he did it with eyes on his wife’s skirts. “I knew your father would-”

She shook her head quickly. “Safe and taken care of has nothing to do with it. I needed _you.”_

“He’s ready to skin me alive, isn’t he, your father?”

“My father will be glad you _are_ alive. For my sake,” she assured him. “His anger will fade.”

Abigail moved closer to her husband, holding onto him as he held onto her. They went on talking, but so quietly that Belle could no longer hear, and she began to feel that she was intruding. 

The last words she’d been able to clearly hear from the Corporal and his wife brought Belle a reminder of concerns she’d been turning over in her head for a while now. She needed to have a talk with her own father.

Sometime after Christmas, she decided in that moment. Afterward, so that her father wouldn’t throw a spanner into those plans. The conversation with him regarding Rummond staying a night in the house had been tense enough. He’d seen her side of things, and he understood how important it was for Neal. It had, however, taken a good hour of listening to his opinions about the ward and the men on it, and of her cajoling and talking sense to him in response, before he came around. Telling him about Rummond and herself just yet would be pushing things too far, and she would not ruin the day for any of them.

She sat down, still holding Rummond’s hand, both of them tucked between his thigh and hers. He had long turned back so that he didn’t stare, but he looked up at her. “Do you think they’ll be all right?” he asked softly, stroking his thumb along the back of hers where their hands were hidden.

There was another, unasked question in his voice. Belle could hear it as well as if he’d said it outright. “They will,” she said, moving her unheld hand across her lap to wrap her fingers around his wrist. “There’s always uneven road. But I think they will.”

She shifted a little closer to Rummond again, giving him a smile, happy to see him give her a lopsided one of his own in return. She would take away the chair when she had to get up. She wanted to eradicate all the doubt she could - even something as simple as misunderstanding why she’d been sitting in a chair rather than on his bed - to show him that she was at his side to stay. Or dispel as much of it as she could do from her side of things, anyway. Just now, though, she hoped that it was enough reassurance to have his hand in hers.


	87. Into the Christmas Spirit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt - _anonymousnerdgirl said: "In honor of Her Handsome Hero I have a special BtFtB prompt: Gaston approaches Belle when she's on an outing with Bae. He disparages her nursing career, the patients she cares for, and settles in on the child of a coward that she's taken in. She pushes him into a snow bank or half frozen fountain."_
> 
> (I did promise way back that we wouldn't see Gaston again, but I think maybe people won't be unhappy with this chapter.)

Neal skimmed his fingers along the edge of the dining table as he made his way around to his chair, climbing into it with the slow manner of a child who would have prefered to remain in bed for a bit longer on this particular Saturday morning. Mrs. Potts pushed his chair in, and he smiled up at her.

“G’morning,” he said, half yawning the greeting.

Belle took her seat across from him, grinning when he curled his hands near the cup of tea that sat next to his plate. “Papa is already in the study?” she asked as Mrs. Potts placed a cup of tea next to hers.

“Where else would he be?” the cook said, stepping out of the dining room. A moment later, she returned with a number of shirred eggs placed on a serving plate, setting them on the table to join a tureen of porridge and a small mountain of _pain perdu._ With a cloth, she moved one of the eggs in its small dish onto Neal’s plate. “Your father’s already asked to have lunch and tea delivered to him.”

Neal poked at his egg, breaking the yolk, and licked his finger. He yawned cavernously, and Belle saw as he resisted the urge to rest an elbow on the table.

“What do you think of going into London with me today?” she asked. “I could use the help, if you’d like to come along.”

The little boy lit up, immediately wide awake, and he nodded so hard that his hair flopped. She’d been planning to take him along, but had waited to tell him. They had learned the hard way that he couldn’t sleep if he was too excited over the next day. The concern crossed her mind about whether he would be able to sleep on Christmas Eve, and she _truly_ hoped that he would.

“We’ve need of some things before Christmas comes around,” she went on, “and I thought you might like to help me with the shopping.”

“I can help!” Neal agreed. “I can help carry things.”

“Oh, there’s much more than carrying for you to do.” She grinned at him as he seemed to be considering what else he might be able help with. “We’ll bundle up and be off right after breakfast. How does that sound?”

Neal’s eating grew a bit hurried, and Mrs. Potts tutted at him. “You might as well slow down, child. You can’t leave until Belle’s had her own breakfast, and she isn’t as apt to wolf it down.”

Belle looked up as Mrs. Potts placed an egg shirrer on her plate, wondering which ‘Belle’ this was that the cook spoke of. She received a mildly chiding glance - a warning to eat at a polite speed, herself. She picked up her fork and took a piece of bread from the pile. Mrs. Potts knew her far too well.

Breakfast did end up more brief than usual, and Neal watched her, timing his bites with hers to make sure that he didn’t eat _too_ quickly. He slid down from his chair when she took the napkin from her lap.

“I believe your father might want you to step in for a word before you go,” Mrs. Potts told her, beginning to clear their places.

Belle sent Neal up to fetch his outdoor things while she went to see what her father wanted. He sat at his desk when she went in, sorting through paperwork of some sort with a frown of concentration on his face. A cup of tea sat nearby, having long gone cold. 

She cleared her throat softly, since he didn’t seem to have noticed her opening the door. “Mrs. Potts said that you wanted to see me?”

“Yes, yes…” Maurice took a piece of paper from those in his hands, placing it in a stack to his right before he looked up. “I understand you’re doing a bit of Christmas shopping.”

“I am. I hope to get the majority of it done today.” She enjoyed the tradition of it, but it wasn’t something that she wanted to spread into the only other day off she would have before Christmas was upon them. There were other things she needed the next Saturday to prepare for.

Maurice smiled, setting his paperwork down and sucking his stomach in so that he could open the desk drawer in front of him. He produced a folded piece of paper, and he held it out to her. She took it, having a look at what he found important enough to make a note of for her.

“I’ve some things for you to buy. Or place orders for, if they’re not in the shops.” He reached into his jacket, where it hung neatly on the back of his desk chair, for his wallet. From it, he produced a good bit of money. “Just in case you might need to stop in somewhere we might not have an account,” he said, folding the notes over his finger and holding them out to her.

Her father could be a penny-pincher when he was as neck deep in business as he’d lately been, but this time of year was not one that he allowed frugality to infringe upon. They’d never had a Christmas that she could call anything but lavish.

Belle accepted the money, slipping it into her skirt pocket until she could put it in her purse. It was far more than she would need for the things on his list. 

“Thank you, Papa,” she said, knowing good and well that it had little to do with store accounts. “We’ll likely be out until the evening, but I believe we’ll be home before dinner. I trust you’ll eat at the table with us?”

“You’re taking Neal along?” he asked, and she knew a dodged question when she heard it. 

“I believe he could do with an outing. And there are some things he needs to look after for Christmas, as well.”

Maurice nodded. “An excellent idea. Get him out of the house, have him do something nice. You’ll find a café, have a good lunch, won’t you?”

“We will have a nice lunch. And perhaps tea, as well.” She smiled at his gentle fussing and turned to go. He had come quite the way since the night she’d brought Neal home with her unannounced.

“I’ll have dinner in the dining room,” her father said before she left the study. “I don’t expect to be _that_ long here.”

Belle gave him an approving nod before she closed the door. Neal waited on the bottom stair, his cap and mittens on, though his coat had only made it onto one arm. She helped him the rest of the way into it.

“I’ll get my things and be right back down. Two minutes, all right?” she said as she buttoned him up. She fixed the angle of his cap and hurried up the stairs. 

“One chimpanzee, two chimpanzee, three chimpanzee…” she heard him counting behind her as she went into her bedroom. 

She pulled on the warm woolen coat and gloves she’d set out on her bed before going down to breakfast, and chose an enamelled scarab hat pin from her vanity drawer to match the blue and green of her hat. She looked into the vanity mirror to quickly place both. The asymmetrical folding of the hat’s soft brim wasn’t a favorite style of hers, but her father had bought it for her on his most recent business trip, and it _was_ warm. She grabbed her purse, fished the money from her pocket to secure it inside, and headed out again. Neal was on his second minute, back around to the count of forty, when she made it back to him.

“Quick enough?” she asked, giving him a heavy, affectionate pat to the top of his head as she stepped down to the floor.

He hopped down beside her and echoed, “Quick enough.”

Her father’s tourer waited for them, and Horatio held the door open until they’d settled themselves in the back. Neal had snugged himself into Belle’s side by the time they left the drive.

“I have a surprise I believe you’ll like,” she told him once they’d gotten out on the road. He leaned his head back so that he could see her, a smile waiting in his face for what she said next. “How would you like it if your papa spent Christmas with us?”

 _“Papa’s coming to Christmas?”_ Neal gasped. His smile grew broad and ecstatic, and he grabbed onto the side of her coat, tugging at it in excitement. 

She’d gone back and forth with herself about whether she should wait until nearer the time to tell him about his father having been invited. But it would be better that Neal knew it was only for Christmas, she decided, so that he wouldn’t be quite _so_ disappointed when Rummond had to go back to the hospital. He would surely want to have something to give his father in the way of presents, as well.

“He is!” Belle grinned at his reaction. “As far as we’ve planned, he’ll be over on Christmas Eve, and-”

“He’ll be there _all night?”_ Neal let go of her coat and bounced a couple of times in his seat before he could sit still again. He was certainly awake now. 

She squeezed him against her side. “And _all_ of Christmas day.” 

He dropped his head back against her arm, “All day!”

Neal spent much of the hour’s ride into London talking about the things he was going to show his Papa, places he would take his Papa, people he wanted his Papa to meet. They couldn’t get to half of it, Belle knew - not with the festivities - but Neal was enthralled with the idea of having his father around for an entire day, and she wouldn’t damped his mood.

As they got near the city, his excitement seemed to wane and his chatter fell away. After a while, he said quietly, “Papa won’t have any Christmas presents.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Belle asked.

“He’s been at the hospital. It’s not home,” Neal said with a serious little frown. “Father Christmas won’t know where to find him.”

Belle tightened her arm around him. She wondered if he’d had the same thoughts about his own Christmas morning. Despite decorations and talk of Christmas being constant as close as they were getting to it, he hadn’t brought up what he hoped to get for himself. His first remark about anyone’s presents was this worry about _his father_ having something.

“I’m not so sure about that, darling,” she said. “Father Christmas has his ways of knowing. He’s very resourceful.” 

Neal looked up at her. She could read the doubt in his features.

“Well, we’ll simply have to make sure that your papa has a present under the tree, won’t we?” she suggested. “You know that people give presents to one another, as well, don’t you?”

He nodded, and the solution seemed to reassure him. “I could get him something?”

“You certainly can. Think about things that he might want or need, and we’ll see what we can come up with, all right?”

“Where to first, Miss?” the driver asked as they neared Knightsbridge.

Belle looked around a bit, getting her bearings. “Harrods, please, Horatio.”

As they made their way more slowly through the city street, she planned how she’d do things with Neal any time she could in the evenings. He was playing by himself more, now that Christopher had gone again. She would recruit him to help her wrap a few presents, and it wouldn’t hurt to set him about making a few decorations. It would be this week that the maids and Lumiere would have the tree and greenery arranged and the table and mantle ornaments set out. The tree hadn’t had a paper chain or popcorn string on it since she was in primary school, herself. Neal had his schoolwork to do, of course, but he and Chip had occupied a good portion of one another’s time between school and when she arrived home from work.

Chip’s mother had come back for her son a week and a half prior, saying that she wanted him with her through Christmas. Mrs. Potts was understandably upset over it - she’d been looking so forward to having her grandson around for the holiday festivities. Neal’s nightmares had returned for a little while, and though there had been no more accidents, Belle had awakened to a few instances of his shy requests to stay with her for the night. It had also taken away Neal’s playmate. Belle’s father and the staff were generally too busy to occupy a small child very often, and though he was always welcome to Mrs. Potts’ kitchen, there wasn’t much in the way of entertainment there outside of eating and small cooking tasks.

“What do you think we should get Mrs. Potts?” Belle asked when they’d gotten inside the department store and out of the cold.

“She likes candied apricots,” he offered, remembering their visit to the sweets shop. “And she always wears those long pins on her dress to church.”

“I believe we can find those.” She smiled down at him. “What does Babette like? Do you remember?” 

“Marzipan,” Neal said right away. The younger maid had been so sure to make it known that even he’d caught on.

“And Lumiere - what does he like?”

He thought for a moment, taking Belle’s hand as they approached the moving staircase. “Babette!”

The snort that Belle gave was by no means ladylike, but she couldn’t fault Neal’s logic. “Well, yes, but I meant something that we might find in the way of a present.” 

“He likes those things he wears on his neck,” Neal said after a bit more thought, pointing to his own collar.

“Cravats,” Belle said, supplying him with the word. “You know, that _is_ a fine idea.”

They made their way through the department store, and Belle made her way through much of the list that her father had given her as they did, as well as accomplishing a few of the things the list she’d made in her head. There were moments when she had to send Neal to fetch her some small this-or-that from a nearby display, to keep him from seeing what she bought and set for delivery or spoke with a salesperson about. She was glad that he was still young enough not to have caught onto her. 

It was nearing noon when she noticed her little companion’s energy flagging. He held onto her hand more, sticking near her side rather than venturing to the edge of her vision while she shopped. She found her own stomach feeling empty, and she was certain that his must be, as well.

“Why don’t we have lunch at the V&A?” she said as they made their last stop at the menswear department. “We’ll eat and have a look around. What do you think?”

“Okay,” Neal agreed, his eyes scanning the displays and shelves. He had yet to find something for his father.

Belle took the list from her pocket to check it, and slipped it back in. “Have you ever been to the V&A?” she asked, reasonably certain that he hadn’t.

He shook his head, looking up at her. “What kind of food do they have?”

“Well,” she began as they headed toward a large display of cravats and neck ties. “First and foremost, it’s a museum. They’ve art and books, architecture, textiles and furniture, photography - _so_ many things to see that we’d need a full day to see it all. But I think you might enjoy the science museum best in the time we have, hm?”

Neal gave her a look of confusion. “You said we’d eat lunch there.”

“They have refreshment rooms. Right in front, to tempt people as they go in.” She swung his hand gently, grinning. “Do you feel up to walking to it? It’s about the distance between the house and the pond you see on your way to school.”

Crowded as the streets were at this time of year, it would likely be faster for them to take the ten minute walk there, rather than spending twice the time fussing around with getting the tourer in and out of parking and between pedestrians.

“I can walk there. I’m not tired,” Neal claimed. He took a deep breath, his hand tightening on hers as he edged closer to her side while they looked at the slips of fabric in the display.

Belle caught him leaning against her hip, and she let go of his hand to put her arm around him. She would have Horatio follow them to the museum, to pick them up afterward. There was more to do, but there was also no sense in them walking back the farther distance to the little shops that were up past the department store.

“What about this one?” she asked, pointing to a tan and orange flowered cravat. Neal wrinkled his nose. Purposefully, she pointed to an even more hideous example in yellow-polka-dotted green and received the same response. “Which do you think, then?”

Neal reached up, careful to touch only the edge of a box holding a slip of navy and white paisley silk. “This one?”

“I do believe he’ll like that one,” she said, taking it down from the display.

She took the cravat across to the counter, setting on it the few bags of small things she’d decided to take right home instead of having sent by delivery. “Why don’t you have a look around right here and see if you can find something your papa would like?” she said, needing to take his attention off what she was doing for a few moments.

He turned to look, though he lingered by her side. Quietly, she discussed with the salesman there the time it might take to have something monogrammed and delivered.

A cabinet just across the corner from the counter caught Neal’s eye. He glanced up at Belle before he went to it, walking around it to look through the glass at the display case filled with canes. After having a good look, he went back to Belle. With a tentative tug to her coat, he asked for her attention.

“Excuse me for a moment,” she said to the man behind the counter, turning to go with Neal.

“Can I look close?” he asked, making a patting gesture toward the display that didn’t quite touch it. 

She pulled the handle near the top of the glass front, and the inner part of the cabinet that held the canes in a grid formation tilted out with it. Neal touched a few of them, his fingertips moving hesitantly over wooden and metal handles as he chewed on the inside of his bottom lip.

“Which one?” he asked, looking up at her. A cane was important, he thought. It was something his Papa would always have. He probably wouldn’t change it every day like a tie or socks. It was important to choose the right one.

“Which one do _you_ think?” she asked, smiling down at him.

Neal looked at the canes again. “Any one?”

“Any one you think he would like, darling.”

He took another couple of minutes, but he finally chose one, and Belle pulled it out of the display before closing the front again. She checked the tag hanging from the handle by a string, and gave the cane to Neal. Unlatching and sorting through her purse, she separated a few notes from the rest and handed them to him.

“This is yours, for all your help today,” she said. It was more than what it would take to buy the cane, but he would be just fine with a bit of pocket money. “Take it up to the counter and tell the salesman that you want to buy it. All right?”

She waited there next to the display, watching closely as Neal worked his way through the purchase on his own.

“Would you like it delivered, or will you take it with you?” the salesman asked, and Belle smiled when he flicked a look over at her. He was speaking to Neal like a young gentleman.

Neal looked back at her. She raised her eyebrows. It was his decision.

“Deliver it, please,” he said, accepting the change when it was offered. “With Belle’s?”

“Of course, sir,” the salesman said, nodding.

Neal sent a slightly spooked expression her way at being called ‘sir,’ but she grinned, and the look turned into a smile. Once he’d finished, she went back to complete the delivery form for him. He could learn how to look after that detail another time.

The two of them went back downstairs, and Belle stopped them so that she could put her gloves back on and Neal could put on his mittens. It was too cold out to go bare handed. She stopped by to tell Horatio their plans, and they were on their way.

There was very little wind to bite their faces, and the way did turn out easier to walk than to drive. They arrived in front of the museum, and Horatio was just more than halfway when she searched back through the people and automobiles between them. He would park as nearby as possible for her, she knew, so she took Neal in to get them started on lunch.

The scent of food coming from the Grill Room enticed them in, and they were given a table for two near the grand iron stove. Neal looked around at the blue Dutch tiles that decorated the walls, leaning close so that he could see the details. He dallied around the wall near their table with Belle looking on, until the waiter came around.

“Which menu would you prefer?” the man asked, sparing half a glance at the boy who took the chair across from her.

“The first,” Belle answered, and the waiter recited it for them. She looked to Neal. “Do you hear something that sounds good?”

He squirmed in the chair that was too big for him. “Anything is okay,” he said softly.

“A steak pudding for him,” she ordered. “And mashed potatoes, if you will. I’ll have the veal cutlets and bacon. You can bring a plate of cold chicken and ham, along with some fresh bread, please, and tarts at the end of the meal.”

The waiter nodded curtly and left them. Belle reached across to pat the marble tabletop between herself and Neal. “The steak pudding here is exceptional,” she told him, hoping to reassure him a bit. He hadn’t been in many restaurants, and it was a difficult exercise to get him to tell what he _wanted_ to eat even at home. He’d had a long day, besides. “Top notch. But it’s all right if you don’t like it. We can always order something else.”

“That’s okay,” he said, reaching to fiddle with the hemmed edge of the napkin at his setting. “I’ll like it.”

Their food came around quite quickly, prepared at the stove nearby and thus piping hot when set before them. Neal ate well, she was pleased to see; he nearly cleaned his plate, and he nibbled at the cold meat and bread. All save a few bites of his tart crust disappeared, as well. Belle filled herself, happiness stoking her appetite. There was only one thing that could possibly have made the day better.

Neal held her hand as they left and went on their way toward the exhibits, his energy coming back up with his full stomach. He paused next to a fountain in wonder, letting go of Belle’s hand when it became plain that she would remain right next to him while he looked.

The refreshment rooms were toasty, but the water in the fountain was frigid. A thin rim of ice lined the edge of the reservoir. It likely should have been turned off, but the effect was pretty enough that people kept stopping to look. Neal leaned with one foot on the ground and a knee and hands on the stone fountain edge, looking into the blue-grey water that sparkled under the winter sun pouring down through the windows. She smiled at his interest, waiting for him to finish his little exploration.

“Why, my dear Belle! What a lark, seeing you here…”

Her stomach turned at the sound of that voice, and for an instant she thought that her lunch might come up. 

Donat had a girl on his arm - one of the trio of blonde women she had seen fluttering about him at his polo matches. That wasn’t even remotely a surprise. Her hand in his elbow was bare and jeweled. Belle couldn’t help but recognize the ring on the girl’s finger. It had once been on her own, after all. Donat certainly moved quickly.

“You remember how I told you about Belle, don’t you?” he said. “Belle French?”

The girl nodded, her smile very polite, though there was a distasteful tilt to it. “I remember. How nice to finally meet you,” she said, nothing akin to sincerity in her words.

Belle waited for some manner of introduction that never came. The pair looked at her, and it made her previously pleasant meal feel as if it were turning sour. “I’m sorry I can’t linger. I’m here with a friend.”

Donat smirked, his eyes staying on Belle as he half turned his head to address the girl with him. “Isn’t it strange, Laurette, knowing things about someone that could ruin their reputation?”

“There isn’t anything about me that’s _any_ of your business anymore,” Belle snapped, her temper suddenly very short. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“She’s a nurse, didn’t you say?” the girl asked, picking up on Donat’s ridiculing tone. “I thought her family was wealthy.”

“Oh, she has a mission in life. Serve the sick, look after invalids, cure the mad.” He chuckled. “Has aspirations of being a doctor, this one. Works on a ward full of cowards and deserters, and she thinks it makes her worth medical college.”

Laurette hesitated, appearing honestly bewildered. “Women can be doctors?”

“Women who like to play pretend. They’ll find their stethoscopes pulled out from under them, I expect.”

Belle narrowed her eyes. “Is this your idea of flaunting something at me, Donat?” she said. “Because from where I stand, there is nothing to rub my nose in.”

Neal pushed himself back off the fountain edge, moving over to stand next to Belle again. Donat’s eyes fell to him.

“I suppose this is the ‘friend’ you’re here with, eh? I did hear about that.” His eyes slid back up to her face. “How _did_ you allow yourself to be manipulated into taking on that coward’s urchin? 

“Shut your mouth,” Belle said, half surprising herself. “Look at you. Belittling children and the ill. You’re no more than a gimcrack, Donat. You never were.” 

“Well, well. I suppose now we know where you’re getting your satisfaction from these days, don’t we?” he said with a curled lip and a satisfied wag of his head. He leaned in, his words hissing down onto her face. “Funny, isn’t it, how you went from the cream of the crop to having to resort to laying a cripple.”

There were situations in which something came out of Belle’s mouth before she could stop it, or when instinct had her move to do something before she quite realized. This was not one of those moments.

She struck out, both hands landing square in the middle of Donat’s chest with a solid shove, and his calves hit the side of the fountain as he staggered backward. There was a second of laughter at her from him before he overbalanced.

Donat positively shrieked when he hit the freezing water.

Neal giggled before he could stop himself, and he clapped both mittened hands over his mouth. He hurried to place himself behind Belle, holding onto the back of her coat and peering around her.

Donat floundered, the waterfall from the bottom tier pouring right down onto his head, and it seemed he splashed half the contents of the reservoir over the edges before righting himself enough to get some footing. The girl accompanying him stood back, gaping from one of them to the other.

“Belle!” he squawked, as if shocked that she would do such a thing. He stood with his arms out from his sides, sheets of water pouring from his waterlogged coat and suit, and a hurt and resentful part of her hoped that he would get a good chill from it and have to spend Christmas confined to bed.

“You don’t speak to me,” she said, her voice dangerously quiet and her face burning with fury. “If you see me in public _ever_ again, you do not approach me. You do not speak to me. You don’t speak to Neal. You might know things about me, Donat Gaston, but don’t you ever forget that I know things about you that you don’t want told, as well. If _you_ want _your_ reputation to remain intact, you’ll leave me and my family alone.”

He glared murderously at her for a split second before a bolt of wide-eyed fear crossed his face. He schooled it away, appearing merely angry. He opened his mouth, but seemed to somehow think better of it, and managed to hold his tongue.

Belle reached back to draw Neal from behind her and took his hand, walking away with her head held high.

“Perhaps we should visit the museum another time,” she said once they were outside. “We’ll make that full day of it one Saturday. And… perhaps we shouldn’t tell Mrs. Potts or my father about what happened?”

Neal looked up at her and she looked back at him. He tucked his lips between his teeth, but she saw a smile at the corners of his mouth. He nodded.

They could see the tourer from the museum exit, and Horatio was out and had the door open before they got there. “Let’s see about Mrs. Potts’ candied apricots next,” she said, helping Neal in ahead of her. “A sweets shop visit feels in order.”

“I believe I’ll see if they have a batch of fresh brittle. We could use a tin. And I think I’ll have some fudge while we’re there. What would you like?” Belle asked, expecting she’d need to wait and see what he lingered over when they were looking around the shop. She was intent on brushing the encounter with Donat from their thoughts. She wouldn’t allow the brute to change the rest of their day.

“Chocolate,” he said once they were enclosed in the back of the tourer, after he’d had a while to think it over and then work himself up to telling her. He fidgeted with his mittens a little, but he went on. “The round ones, with the shell and the soft chocolate inside. May I have some of those?”


	88. Miles to Go

Rummond talked with Lieutenant Hargreaves fairly often, and a bit with Reyes here and there. She’d known him to talk with Jezek and Knight a handful of times over their headboards. Belle had never seen him cross the aisle, though, to talk with another patient. She returned from fetching towels for the washroom to find Rummond standing next to Commander Strand’s bed, hands fiddling nervously with his cane, the younger serviceman nodding up at him.

Her curiosity burned, but she couldn’t drop what she was doing. By the time she was free to go over and nose around a little, they’d finished whatever conversation they had been having and he was on his way back to his own bed.

“It looked as if you and Commander Strand were having a nice chat,” she said as she stepped up to Rummond’s bedside, belatedly aware of how her nonchalance failed. She was proud of him for making the effort to speak with someone outside of the ordinary, but curious over the unusualness of it, as well.

The look he gave her was slightly sidelong. “Oh, I was only asking how his watch was behaving, if it still kept time correctly, about his pastimes. That sort of thing.”

“Everything is all right, though?” she asked.

“Just fine,” he said, giving her a smile along with it.

And with _that_ smile, she grew a little suspicious of him, though she couldn’t imagine what else Rummond could have been up to. She gave him a playfully narrow-eyed look and parked herself on the edge of the bed. 

“No, just- _leave me alone,_ if you please!” Lieutenant Hargreaves snapped at Nurse Halloran from the next bed over. He turned onto his other side, his back to her, and flopped hard as he did. “I don’t need anything. Leave me be.”

The nurse frowned, looking for a moment as though she didn’t know what to do, and she hurried away to some task off the ward.

“Particularly bad day,” Rummond whispered, his eyes shifting away from his bunkmate and back to Belle.

“Mm,” Belle hummed in agreement, lowering her voice in kind. “It’s the time of year. Being here, away from family, having limited festivities to look forward to. It happens to many patients.”

“He’s been talking about his wife and daughter, the things they do over the Christmas season that he’d be missing.” He glanced over at the Lieutenant’s back. “Earlier in the week, though. He’s been quiet about it these last few days.”

“Do you remember what he last spoke about before he began withdrawing?” she asked, though she could draw a reasonable conclusion.

Rummond thought. What had the boy been saying? He’d been chattering on, and then gone silent, and he hadn’t seemed himself since. “He mentioned how Christmas Eve and Christmas are open to visitors. He wasn’t certain whether his wife would be able to afford coming out in the middle of the week. Mightn’t even be able to see them on the day, he said.”

“Oh…” Belle frowned. No one deserved to be alone over Christmas, and certainly not one of the men on her ward. “I do hope that she can.”

Rummond nodded, sliding his hand away from his lap to set it next to hers on the blanket. “He’d be far better for it.”

A yawn snuck up on her, and she ducked her head to hide it. Sitting on the bed felt far too nice. All day, she’d felt as though she might fall asleep on her feet. It was the morning after her mid-week night shift, and she’d hardly stopped all day, trying to keep herself awake. Her pauses by Rummond’s bed were filled with choked back yawns and fantasies of crawling beneath his covers to sleep, rather than anything more lurid.

Neal had been a touch ill with a bit of quinsy. It wasn’t severe - just enough to make him feel badly. He’d complained of an ache in his throat as she accompanied him out front of the hospital to the car on Sunday night past, and she’d known what it was with a look. Their family doctor had gone to the house at an obscenely early hour Monday morning to treat him, and it was all but cleared up now. Mrs. Potts had been plying him with broth and custard, and he’d spend four nights out of the past five sleeping in Belle’s bed.

Knowing how his son had been under the weather, it was the first thing Rummond asked after each morning. Belle couldn’t blame him; she’d been finding reasons to be at the front desk once a day so that she could call home mid-shift and check in on Neal, as well.

Rummond touched her hand, fingers stroking along the back of it before he returned to his own lap. The head nurse had been about, and though she hadn’t targeted anyone in particular today, he didn’t want to tempt her over.

“I was thinking of spending a little while in the storage room,” he told Belle, looking down as she turned her hand so that the back of it rested against the outside of his thigh. “Over lunch.”

The thought of spending a bit of time with him in private perked her up. She smiled, giving him a quick nod. “Go on when you can, and I’ll join you after a few minutes?”

“A good plan,” he said with a grin.

Belle stepped away to go about her work before too much longer, glad that lunchtime wasn’t far off and making herself busy until then. The kitchen trolley was brought in, and Rummond left when Quinn began delivering trays far enough down the row that no one was paying attention near the front. As soon as the time clicked over to noon, she took the hamper from the washroom with the excuse that there were no orderlies available to take it immediately. She whisked it quickly down to the laundry before making a careful path back to the foyer. 

She’d resigned herself to the fact that Nurse Lind would never stop giving her a knowing smirk every time they went in past her. As long as Mal kept Rummond’s hiding place a secret, Belle could live with an endless number of looks assuming what they did together.

Rummond heard the door open and shut, and the _click_ of the lock after. Though Belle spoke quietly to make him aware of her, the experience of the head nurse having crept up on him in the supply closet gave him an apprehensive feeling in the pit of his stomach until Belle came around and he could see her face.

She sat next to him and leaned in, one hand braced on his knee as she kissed him. Such a stomach-flipping kiss it was that he very nearly forgot why he’d asked her along in the first place.

“Belle-” he said between kisses. He lifted a hand to cup against her jaw when she leaned for another. “Belle,” he tried again, his ears warm and his lower lip oversensitive from the enthusiasm of her kisses. “I want you to rest.”

“Rest?” she asked, for a moment thoroughly confused.

“You’ve a good hour over lunch, don’t you? Why don’t you have a bit of a rest?” he urged her. “Here, where no one’ll be able to set you about doing something.”

His meaning dawned on her, and she grinned broadly as it did. He’d invited her to the storage room to _nap,_ bless him. There she was thinking he’d finally _asked_ for something amorous, but no, he was attempting to take care of her. Belle kissed him again anyway, just for that.

“Come on,” he said. “Lie down for a bit. I’ll wake you before time to go back.”

“I shouldn’t. There’s too much I should be doing, for me to take time to sleep now.” She had taken a bit of a cat nap a very small handful of times here with him when he’d been exhausted into it, but taking a nap for herself was different. 

“You’re entitled to your break, love,” Rummond told her. “You lose enough sleep as it is. There’s nothing so urgent just now that you can’t close your eyes a few minutes.”

“What about your lunch?”

He shrugged. “They’ll leave it on my bunk. I don’t mind if it’s cold.”

Belle sighed, and the moment she decided to give in, the muscles between her shoulders relaxed themselves. She pushed her shoes off, and with Rummond’s help, she took out the pins holding her cap in place and set it aside. 

“Here,” she said, taking off her lapel watch and handing it to him. “Tell me at ten ’til?”

He took it, pinning it to the shoulder of his robe so that he could keep an eye on the time. “I will,” he promised.

She shifted away from him enough that she had space to lie down, surprising him when she rested her head in his lap. His hands hovered for a moment, unsure what to do with them, until she took the right one and wrapped his arm around her ribcage so that he held her. 

“The pillow would be more comfortable,” he said, aware of how little padding he was.

She laced her fingers between his from the back, squeezing his hand against her. “I don’t need the pillow. This is perfect.”

Belle fell asleep almost right away, while he petted the wave of hair at the side of her head. He watched her sleep for a while - the evenness of her breathing, the way the long hours of her night shift fell away in favor of peace. Rummond leaned his head to rest against the shelf behind him, opening his eyes again every few minutes to be certain he hadn’t let her sleep longer than she intended.

It was far too short a nap for her. He hated so much to wake her, but he didn’t want to risk her getting into trouble, either. Watching the minute hand, he waited until it skimmed ten minutes ’til one.

“Belle?” He touched her cheek, saying her name to rouse her. “Belle, time to waken up, love.”

She drew a waking breath, her arm holding his tighter around her for a few seconds. After a moment she sat up, and he missed the warmth and weight of her on his lap immediately.

“I could have gone a full night’s sleep there,” she said, smiling up at him. She rubbed her face a little to try and force herself alert again.

One corner of his mouth quirked into a shy smile. He’d have let her, if they had the time.

Belle took her cap from the box that would hide Rummond’s blanket and pillow before they left, and she got to her feet. He took his cane and followed her. There was no use in him staying too long behind her, since his entire reason for seeking privacy this time had been her.

Fishing the hair pins from her apron pocket, and with his help, she centered her cap again and pinned it into place. “I don’t look as if I’ve been asleep, do I?” she asked.

“Not a bit,” Rummond said. He raised his hand to smooth a few escaped hairs behind her ear. “You still look more than tired enough to convince everyone you’re sleep deprived.”

“I _am_ still sleepy,” she told him with a laugh. “I’ll sleep better tonight, though.”

“I hope so,” he said, registering the weariness behind her smile.

For the first time, Rummond sought a kiss from her rather than waiting for her to come to him. Leaning in as he felt the urge to, he brushed his nose against hers, nuzzling gently. She tilted her head back to meet his lips, lingering there with a soft, unhurried kiss that created a pleasant buzz in his belly.

“Thank you,” Belle said.

He fussed with the strap of her apron to move it back into its usual position. “Just a kiss.”

“Yours are never ‘just’ kisses,” she assured him, catching his hand and brushing her lips over the line of his knuckles. “But I meant for luring me in for a nap. It was much needed.”

She stole one more kiss before leaving first, returning to the ward and her duties, though she kept an eye on the door to be certain he returned. When he stepped back inside, she cast a look around to make sure that he wasn’t noticed too well. Her attention followed him all the way back to his bed, and she watched as he pulled his covers back over his lap and brought his tray toward him. She hoped that his lunch wasn’t something that became unpleasant after having gone cold.

Belle was clear to the far end of her section of beds, just about to check a patient’s pulse, and only realized that Rummond still had her watch when she moved to reach for it. 

“Excuse me, Sergeant,” she said, having to step away to retrieve it.

“I wondered when you might miss it,” he said, grinning up at her, and teased as he unpinned it from his robe, “What might I get in return for it?”

“A piece of candy. Perhaps a stray hair pin,” she teased in return, shaking her head and searching her pocket for peppermints.

They bartered playfully over just how many peppermints were appropriate payment for a watch, and Belle nearly missed it as Nurse Mills sidled her way up from the back of the aisle. Rummond, catching the change in her demeanor, let her slip the little blue enameled watch from his hand. She dropped it into her pocket, ready to walk away.

The head nurse looked to Lieutenant Hargreaves, though, and Belle stopped near the footlocker so that she didn’t draw too much attention to herself nor Rummond.

“My, what happened to the Christmas gaiety I witnessed?” Nurse Mills needled. “Have we no more paper chains to play with?”

“I don’t feel well,” Jefferson said, his eyes remaining closed and quite clearly doing his best to not rise to her provocation. “I want to sleep.”

“One would think you could be thankful that you aren’t in a proper asylum at this time of year. You’d have no Christmas to speak of. Not all are as lucky as yourself,” she went on, her tone switching from open mockery to menacing. 

“Let me alone,” he said one more. “I don’t have the tolerance for your particular brand of caretaking today.”

Her expression darkened. “Perhaps you’ll feel more tolerant after a day in confinement, if the bustle of the ward is too much for you.”

At her threat, he leaned up onto his elbow. “It hasn’t got a thing to do with the rest of the ward. I want to be left alone for a while. That’s it.”

“Well then, ‘alone’ we can accomplish.” Nurse Mills twitched a hand toward Gardner at the front of the room, and the orderly headed over.

“I haven’t _done_ anything!” Jefferson’s voice rang in distress across the ward. He sat up, glaring at the head nurse as if he could burn his way through her with a look.

Belle wanted badly to step in and inform her of how ridiculous and unnecessary it was, what she was doing, but it never did help. Nurse Mills was looking for someone to torment, and getting into it with her in front of everyone only seemed to bolster her determination to cause harm. However, that didn’t mean Belle had to stand for it.

Gardner marched Jefferson off the ward. She threw the pieces of candy she held in her hand down onto Rummond’s bed and started off. 

“Where are you going?” he asked in alarm.

“To intercede,” she said, heading toward Dr. Whale’s office.

Belle was determined that she wouldn’t feel like a tattle for going directly to the administrator. She was past sick of this reign that allowed the head nurse to hand down judgment with no impunity, and while she might not be able to stop it, she would step in and attempt to reverse what she could.

Rummond wasn’t certain what transpired between Belle leaving the ward on her mission and her return. After not a quarter of an hour, however, the small procession of the pinch-faced Nurse Mills, followed after a few moments with a Belle triumphant and a Hargreaves who was a good deal more ashen than he’d been upon leaving came back to the ward.

She gave Rummond a satisfied grin and nudged the Lieutenant along back to his bunk, getting him settled again.


	89. Hope Leaves a Scar

“Come in, Captain. Make yourself comfortable,” Dr. Hopper said as he stood back from the door to allow his patient in. He closed it again and went back to his desk, lifting the satchel that rested on top of it back into his lap. “I’ll only be a moment.”

Rummond stepped over to the bookcase for the current watch in repair, and he turned to take the seat that he’d come to think of as his on the sofa. As he reached to set down the watch, tools, and the paper package holding parts that had arrived at last, something caught his eye. He crossed to the window.

A number of small paper ornaments had been strung to hang on the bare tree branches, where they could be easily seen from the doctor’s office. Some shuddered in the light wind, a few spinning free on their strings. He turned curiously to Dr. Hopper, who had paused in sorting through the files in his bag to observe.

The doctor smiled, shaking his head. “Not my doing.”

Rummond looked out again. “Belle?” he murmured with a grin.

“Just a bit ago,” Dr. Hopper confirmed.

So _that’s_ where she had disappeared to during breakfast. He’d assumed she had chores to do off the ward, and she had returned smiling as though she’d been up to something. Apparently she _had._

He rested a hand on the window sill, getting his face as near the glass as he could without pressing his nose to it. There were perhaps a dozen of the little homemade ornaments - some made a bit more expertly than others. He could tell Neal’s handiwork from Belle’s more careful cutting and folding, and both squeezed at his heart.

“Nurse French asked that I pass along a message for you to do with them as you like,” the doctor said after a few minutes, drawing Rummond out of his reverie. 

He sat down, arranging everything as he would need it to finish repairs on the pocketwatch, his eyes straying to the window again and again. Belle’s thoughtfulness in leaving the decorations where he could see them during his appointment brought a feeling of warmth that spread through his chest.

Dr. Hopper set his satchel behind the desk again before beginning. “Captain, unless you’ve something else that you particularly need to talk about today, I would like to discuss the events surrounding and following your trial a bit more.”

Well, if that wasn’t a wet blanket, Rummond didn’t know what was.

“I wouldn’t,” he responded shortly.

He unrolled the tools and unfolded the handkerchief holding Reyes’ pocketwatch, picking up the little package and sliding a finger beneath the flap at one end to open it so that he could lay its contents out. He felt the doctor’s patient gaze on him.

Things had been _good._ For weeks, now. He’d had off days, but overall, he had been on a somewhat even keel. He was fearful as always of provoking the tentative balance of it. 

“Besides, we’ve already touched on that.” Rummond frowned down into the watch’s works as he removed the back again. There was little more to do, now he had the new parts. He could have it done before the session was up. “Isn’t that enough?”

“We are here to work through these difficulties and the problems they’ve caused you - not simply to touch on them.” Dr. Hopper waited for a moment, giving his patient time to respond. When he received none, he pressed carefully. “I believe it’s something worth talking over more thoroughly. If that’s all right with you, Captain?

Rummond gave a grumbling hum, his eyes on his work as though all of his attention were on it.

“What is the first thing you think about, when you think of the trial?” the doctor asked.

“I do my best not to.”

“But when you do?”

“The way the barristers looked at me.” It was an easy question to answer. Rummond tried not to shrink in on himself as the courtroom flooded vividly to mind, the effort half successful. 

Dr. Hopper gave him a bit of time, but it became clear that he would have to guide his patient along. “How did they look at you?”

“As if I were a pile of offal in the box. Even my own defense, such as he was.” Rummond’s frown pulled deeper. The barrister meant to defend him had performed the barest bones of a sufficient job, only enough to claim he’d tried, and it wasn’t as if Rummond could blame the man for his distaste.

“It bothered you, the way they looked at you,” the doctor said.

“Of course it did. Though it wasn’t a change from the way everyone else looked at me already.” With a pair of fine tweezers, he lifted a new and perfect wheel from the edge of the leather tool case, placing it.

“And the judge?”

_“Everyone.”_

Dr. Hopper waited, and Rummond let him do so for a while, realizing that the doctor wanted him to continue on his own. He replaced another of the wheels that had been warped.

“The judge had been presiding over trials like mine every day,” he muttered. “He was as sick of traitors and cowards as the rest of the country.”

Dr. Hopper nodded. He knew precisely how many trials of that sort had been on the dockets. Over the course of the war, he’d watched with growing dismay as they processed men through to one awful fate or another, when nearly each and every one should have been sitting across from a therapist, not a judge.

The progression and turnout of Captain Gold’s trial had been included in the file he was provided with upon receiving a new patient. He didn’t need an excruciating blow-by-blow of the entire exercise in humiliation. It was the effects and damage that the ordeal had caused that he wanted to help his patient work back through.

“Many of the people in those courtrooms were misinformed, ignorant of what had actually happened to the men they were prosecuting, and too stubborn to listen to the truth,” Dr. Hopper said, and perhaps he allowed his own frustration and grief for it to show a bit too much.

Rummond glanced up at him and away again. “They were going to execute me. It was rare they wouldn’t sentence a coward to death who’d done what I did.”

The doctor took the opportunity he found to discuss sentencing. He hadn’t been certain how to broach it himself without sending the Captain into a more negative state of mind. “You’ve expressed before that you wish your father hadn’t interfered, that the court had been allowed to sentence you.”

“I did. I have.” Rummond’s brow creased.

“Did you know before the trial’s end what he’d done?”

“No.” He shook his head. “If I had- If I’d known, I would have put a stop to it somehow.”

“How do you feel now about the way things went?” the doctor asked.

“I’m glad now I wasn’t found guilty,” Rummond said. “I’m glad they were stopped from killing me. Or working me to death in prison - whichever method they might’ve decided.”

Glad, but he couldn’t find it in him to be grateful to his father for it. His father hadn’t done it out of love or mercy. He had done it out of some intention to draw out his son’s suffering. Just because the outcome seemed to be turning out differently than what had been intended didn’t mean Rummond could forgive it.

“It’s difficult to feel relieved that my father did what he did and feel the way I feel about _him_ at the same time,” he confessed, rolling a bridge screw slowly between his finger and thumb. It wasn’t often that he truly wanted to tell the doctor something, rather than having it wrenched free or feeling as though he _had_ to talk, but that particular incident caused him honest confusion. 

“That’s understandable,” Dr. Hopper told him. “You have very good reason for such conflicting feelings, with what you’ve been through in regards to your father, and how your views have begun to change on your survival.”

Rummond nodded a little, wondering if all the pieces of him would ever fit back together properly. He doubted it.

He looked down at the slot end of the tiny screw. But some of those pieces _had_ been mended together, hadn’t they? It was what he and the doctor had only just been talking about. How long had it been since the wish that he’d been executed after all gone through his mind? Once he wouldn’t have been able to go a day without thinking it. Minutes, when things were at their worst. But he couldn’t remember the last time he’d wished it. There was too much that he wanted to exist for.

His throat constricted as Neal and Belle crossed his thoughts. He’d fight tooth and nail, now, for them.

Dr. Hopper pushed a little. “Did you feel during the entire trial that you wanted that sort of sentence?”

Rummond had to swallow and clear his throat before he could speak. “Not really, no. It was- It wasn’t pleasant. But I was numb. I knew what they were doing, I heard what the barristers and witnesses were saying, and I was-” He hesitated, looking up at the doctor before he admitted, “I was frightened, but there was- I don’t know how to explain it with anything other than _numb._ Heavy and slow. But I wanted to get home, to my wife, my son. I thought perhaps being home would help… something. Somehow.”

“That numbness, Captain, that would be a symptom of shell shock,” the doctor explained gently. “Do you still find that you have it, now and again?”

“It used to come and go. Not for a good while, though.”

“Good. That’s good.” Dr. Hopper gave him a reassuring smile.

Rummond laid the screw down in a crease of the tool case, suddenly afraid he might drop it. He looked at it as he worked himself up to going on. “I felt alone. Then, during the trial. It grew so much worse afterward, but there, no faces that weren’t full of disgust, not even my wife in the room. I felt alone. Wishing they’d gone ahead and killed me didn’t come until later, though.”

The doctor finished a quick note at the corner of the page and returned his full attention to his patient. Sometimes it took some doing, figuring out what Captain Gold needed to talk about. Twice in the space of only a few minutes, he’d mentioned his wife. She wasn’t someone he brought up often at all - not willingly. 

“It bothers you, that your wife wasn’t there?” he asked, hoping to encourage the Captain to continue.

Rummond had been verbally attacked by the barristers, his own included, by the witnesses, by the judge, and he had felt flayed alive by the time the trial was over. All he’d wanted was one friendly face, and Milah hadn’t so much as been able to return his letters in weeks. It was another pair of conflicting feelings there. He had at the same time been certain she would be present, but relieved that she wasn’t. She wouldn’t hear the charges against him, wouldn’t see them lay out every detail of his cowardice. However, he had also been sure that it would have been some small degree easier, if he could only have seen her and known she was there with him. But she hadn’t been. He hadn’t seen her until it was all over and he’d arrived home to find Jones leaving and she in her dressing gown. The doctor knew how that had gone, though, and he didn’t think he could stomach talking his way through it again.

“It does,” he admitted.

“I remember you speaking once of how difficult it was between you after the trial,” the doctor said. “Did you argue very much?”

“No. No, not much,” Rummond replied, locking his attention on the watch in front of him, though he didn’t really see it so much as look through it. “There were more arguments before I was discharged than after. Afterward, it was… quiet. She had words for me, but it was quiet, for the most part.”

“You say ‘not much.’ That means there _was_ a bit?”

“We had one great row,” Rummond acknowledged.

“Would you feel comfortable talking about that?”

He barked a strangled laugh. “I’m not comfortable with _any_ of this.”

“I can only imagine how difficult it must be to talk about,” Dr. Hopper said kindly.

Rummond set the new bridge into the pocketwatch, turning one screw in a short way before placing another to ensure he had it placed just right. “We had a row not long before she left. A heated one.”

They’d been in town early as the shops would allow that morning, going to buy food and household necessities. The cupboards had been down to the last, neither of them particularly enjoying the way it felt to be among people after the way trials such as his were publicized, and they’d finally been forced to do the shopping. People they’d known for years snubbed them. They’d been turned away from one shop altogether. When they finally found a grocer who would sell to them, the owner had charged them twice over what their supplies were worth. Milah had been forced to take some things off the bill.

She’d screamed at him once they were home, and he knew he wasn’t blameless. He’d raised his voice, as well, cringed at himself, and taken the punishment he knew he deserved. 

_“I don’t understand what more you’d have me do!” he yelled, breaking at last after a morning filled with snide remarks and daggered glares._

_“You_ know _what you should have done, during and after,” Milah seethed. “Other war wives, they get pensions and honors. And me? My husband comes home a traitor to the crown with a mockery of a discharge, and I’m to remain lashed to a proven coward!”_

_The viciousness of her blame - words she’d used often and well, but never quite so incisively as that moment - took him aback. He all but begged her to deny it. “You don’t really wish I’d died in Germany, do you? Milah?”_

_He jumped and gasped involuntarily when she slammed her hands down on the kitchen table across from him. “I wish you’d fought harder! I wish you’d been a man!”_

_Neal began crying - desperate, breathless cries from the nursery - and he bowed out of the argument to look after his son with Milah calling after him, “Go on, flinch away! Tend the baby! It’s all you’re good for!”_

“She was angry,” Rummond said, still feeling the sting. “It wasn’t as though I could blame her for it. She hadn’t expected what she ended up with when she married me.”

Dr. Hopper allowed himself a small frown while his patient wasn’t looking at him. “There is a reason, Captain, that wedding vows include the words ‘for better, for worse.’ A reasonable amount of understanding and tolerance is assumed present in most relationships.”

“Hers ran out,” his patient said simply.

“It must have hurt deeply, your marriage taking that turn so soon after everything that happened to you.”

Rummond’s mouth pinched together so hard that his lips paled.

“It is never my intention to offend you,” the doctor went on gently, his words emerging slow and thoughtful, “and I hope that I don’t when I say that your ex-wife’s behavior was inexcusable. The impact that your situation and the things you suffered had on her is not a valid reason to treat you badly. Nor for the way she’s treated your child together.”

“No, nothing excuses the way she’s hurt Neal,” Rummond said quietly. He wound the watch and set it, making sure that it worked properly and kept time before he put the back on again. He understood why Milah had treated him the way she had, but Neal had deserved nothing but kindness and love. _That_ he held against her.

“Something else I would like to say? The law and lawmakers haven’t yet caught up to the world of psychology and medicine. Their judgement on you - or the judgement they might have handed down - it means nothing in the face of your injury.” He watched Captain Gold for a minute, the man’s small movements and the misery in his posture. “I do realize that all I’ve said likely does little in the way of helping or convincing you of it. But I hope that I can eventually help you to make some peace with everything we’ve discussed today.”

Rummond rubbed at the watch’s case and glass with the handkerchief, removing any smudges he might have left behind. “I don’t know that there’s any peace to be made. With any of it. Perhaps there’s only living with it.”

“We’ll try, though,” the doctor said a bit more lightly.

“Aye,” his patient agreed. “We’ll try.”

Slipping the repaired pocketwatch into his robe pocket, Rummond looked out the window at the paper ornaments fluttering and spinning in the breeze. A weary smile crossed his face before falling away. 

He turned to Dr. Hopper. “I feel as if I’m learning to breathe again.”

The doctor looked up from his notes. “How do you mean?”

Rummond frowned a little, searching for a way to put words to it. “Learning how to breathe and exist around people who’ve never had to contend with having forgotten how.” It was a muddled way of explaining the feeling, but it was the best he had at the moment.

“That’s not an inaccurate description,” Dr. Hopper said, his pen tilting between his fingers. “Those who have never had to experience firsthand the things you have, they have trouble understanding the problems that it can cause in a person.”

“You understand it, though?” Rummond asked after a bit of hesitation.

Dr. Hopper gave him a smile. “I listen, and I know what I see in my patients. I accept the truth of how your experiences and injuries affect your life. I can’t pretend to know what it’s like to be exactly in your position. I think only someone who has been through experiences similar enough could truly know.”

He exchanged a look with the doctor, and he nodded. It was enough.

“Your time is up, if you’re ready to go back to the ward,” Dr. Hopper told him after a moment. 

Rummond rolled the tool case up again and took his cane to stand, going to lay the folded handkerchief on the bookcase. He would need to bring another watch along next time 

“Oh! Wait, wait a second,” the doctor said, waving a hand at him before he could make it out the door. Dr. Hopper reached into his satchel to bring something else out of it - a tin box about the size of both of his hands put together. It rattled as the doctor brought it over.

Rummond pinned the tools between his arm and side as he took the box, prizing open the lid to look inside. It was filled nearly to the brim with timepiece odds and ends - parts, screws, even chains and fobs.

“What is this for?” he asked.

“Consider it a Christmas present, if you like.” Dr. Hopper beamed up at him. “The friend I’ve spoken about - Marco? I mentioned to him how you repair watches around the hospital, and he sent the box along for you. They’re things he’s accumulated over the years. Some abandoned at his shop, some damaged and given to him for scrap. Some he says he would simply never have use for. He wanted it to go to someone who _could_ put it to use.”

“Thank you,” Rummond said, popping the lid back on. “And tell him thank you for me?”

“Of course.” The doctor reached to open the door for him, and he stepped into the hallway.

Rummond had no chaperone still. He stood there for a moment, looking down the way Humbert had taken him once or twice, going around the outside of the hospital. The decision was a quick one. He returned the long way, though he felt a bit odd being in the open air by himself. It was freezing, and he felt shivers beginning to tremble beneath his ribs, but he needed those ornaments. He _had_ considered leaving them so that other patients might enjoy them. It was overcast, though, and if it happened to rain or snow, they would be ruined. He couldn’t allow that, not after Belle and his son had worked on them so, and she’d gone to the trouble to hang them for him.

Being honest with himself as he plucked them carefully down from the branches, the doctor watching him from the other side of the office window with a grin… he felt a bit cheerfully selfish over them.


	90. Just Another Day

He’d barely gotten the box full of watchmaking miscellany set aside before Neal shot across the ward and climbed into his lap. His son wrapped arms around his neck, clinging for a few moments. The cold air had worn off his clothes by the time he let go, moving off to the left and snugging himself against his Papa’s side.

The lack of a morning greeting or chatter was peculiar. “Did you have a bad dream last night?” Rummond asked as he took his son’s cap and brushed the boy’s hair back, knowing the signs in him.

Neal buried his face in the side of his father’s robe. “A little one.”

“Do you want to tell me?” he asked, and he felt Neal shake his head. “Did you tell Belle?”

Neal nodded, barely leaning away enough to have his coat removed. “I told her and she said she’d make it so I could talk to Dr. Hopper on Tuesday,” he said slowly.

He had been coming in for chats with the doctor with some regularity. They had decided on a casual schedule of fortnightly visits, though it had become a weekly occurrence more often than not. It had resulted in Neal being a bit less fearful and anxious, and he’d slowly been becoming more talkative. His nightmares hadn’t disappeared entirely, but they’d become less frequent, as well. 

“That sounds like a good idea,” Rummond told him with a nod, squeezing Neal close. 

Belle came along after a bit longer than usual, picnic basket in the bend of one arm and a small basin held in the other hand. She set the former on his bedside table with a ‘good morning’ and a smile before going to leave the basket on his footlocker. He peered over, finding not water in the basin, but tweezers, thread snips, ointment, gauze, and a stoppered bottle of carbolic. 

“Stitches?” he asked hopefully, his eyes flicking back up to meet hers.

She grinned. “I’m finally going to relieve you of them.”

Rummond patted his hand on the blanket next to him happily. “It’s about time!”

“Well, I don’t want you to have to fuss with them over Christmas, and they’ve been in quite long enough,” Belle said as she sat down, Neal between them.

“If I’m a well-behaved patient, do I get a piece of candy?” he teased.

Belle glanced to Neal, and it was because of the little boy’s presence that she didn’t say what was on the tip of her tongue in regards to what Rummond might get. “Certainly,” she told him instead. “I’ll even let you choose which sort.”

He huffed a soft laugh, shifting a little to get ready.

“Neal, darling,” she said, giving his curled leg a pat to get his attention. He looked to her with sleepy eyes. “Would you do me a favor - go and ask Nurse Lucas if she can help you to fetch a butter knife? I believe I’ve forgotten one, and we may need it for lunch.”

It took him a moment, but he nodded and let go of his father, sliding down from the bed. Belle watched as he trotted across the ward to Ruby. Ruby turned to find her, and they traded a look. The other nurse caught on to Belle’s need for a distracting errand for the little boy, and she took his hand so that they could go off in search of the kitchen. 

Rummond, accustomed by now to her checking his stitches, lay back as she folded his blankets away. He still felt a bit awkward, Belle lifting the hem of his hospital gown right there on the ward. Lacing his hands together on his stomach, he fidgeted a little.

She cut through the dressing and pulled it away, making quick work of it. The incision had healed well, the scar tissue bright pink and shiny and just a bit taut. Lingering tenderness had him still keeping his underwear folded away from it, but she thought that would likely disappear once the stitches were out. Belle disinfected them and the entire area around first, wiping gently over it with a piece of gauze dampened with phenol, before she began snipping through each suture.

Rummond did his best not to pull a face. The sensation of having stitches pulled out again was always an uncomfortable one, though the warmth of Belle’s fingers on his skin made it tolerable. He raised his head, watching closely. A few appeared difficult to remove, but she was patient and went slowly, using the fine tips of the tweezers to give a careful wiggle to the stitches that had healed in more tightly until she worked them free. 

The process wasn’t a long one. Belle applied ointment and one final change of gauze over the suture marks, and she pulled Rummond’s gown over him again before going to set the instruments aside for cleaning and to wash up, herself.

“I think we _might_ just have something better than candy, though,” she told him cheekily when she returned to find him sitting up, his blankets pulled around him again.

“Oh, do you? Better than candy?” he asked, pretending skepticism.

“Mhmm,” Belle hummed, reclaiming her place next to him. “Though I’m trying to decide if I should make you behave yourself until after lunch before you can have your cake and presents. 

Rummond said nothing, only looking at her with a vague expression of surprise.

“I know it isn’t until tomorrow,” she went on, her smile growing broader, “but I thought we might go ahead and have a little something today, since Neal is here for it.”

“Cake and presents…” he frowned, realizing what she meant.

“Rummond?” she asked when his face fell. “What’s the matter?”

“You found out my birthday, then,” he said softly.

The change in his mood was entirely confusing. She watched him, doing her best to figure him out. “Well, it was in your chart. I’ve known it for a long while now.”

The twenty-second and what it meant had been painfully present in his thoughts. It wasn’t something he’d ever been allowed to forget, his father marking the day year after year by inflicting guilt and misery and getting blackout drunk. There were no good associations to be had with it.

“It isn’t something I’ve ever celebrated much.”

Belle blinked at him as though he’d claimed to have been hatched from an egg. “Not even as a boy?”

He shrugged a shoulder, dropping his gaze from her face. “It’s a bit too close to Christmas,” he said by way of an excuse. It had always been the easiest one to give, to get people off the subject.

“But… no one’s ever celebrated it with you? Never? Did you never even celebrate your birthday for yourself?” The thought hurt. She’d never had a single birthday go unobserved, and the idea of no one ever having made an effort for Rummond’s broke her heart a bit.

Still looking intently at the lid half covering the tin box next to his knee, Rummond murmured very much under his breath. “My mam. She-” His frown deepened. He didn’t want to go through the entire tale of it. It didn’t hurt so much as it once did, but still, it did hurt, and he didn’t want to drag Belle into his sorrow over it. Not today, and not when Neal would be back in at any moment. He finished simply, “She passed when I was born.”

 _“Oh._ Oh, God,” she breathed, stricken. “Oh, Rum- Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”

“No, no no, Belle, you-”

“I’m so stupid, I-”

“You most certainly are not,” Rummond said firmly, looking up at her. “I’d never said anything, and you weren’t to know.”

She wanted to reach out for him so badly, to wrap her arms around him, and she held onto handfuls of her skirts to keep from making a scene. She’d meant it as a happy thing. For weeks, she had been looking forward to surprising him with this; it had never occurred to her that it would be upsetting.

“I didn’t mean to bring out bad memories…”

“I know.” He pulled up a smile, not wanting her to fret over something neither of them could help, and reached to lay his hand over one of her small fists. Taking a breath, he shook his head. “You know what?”

Belle stopped worrying at her lower lip long enough to ask, “What?”

“Help me to make a nice memory for it?”

“Really?” she asked a bit weakly.

He nodded, squeezing his hand around hers. “It would be a start, good birthday memories.”

“You’re sure? If you don’t want to-”

Neal returned with the blunt little butter knife. He handed it to Belle, and she leaned to set it on top of the picnic basket while he climbed up between she and his Papa.

“I’m sure,” Rummond said, his hand parting from hers as she moved. He curled an arm around his son again.

“Sure about what?” Neal asked.

“Oh, I let it slip that we might have brought something for your papa’s birthday,” Belle said.

The boy perked up, all traces of drowsiness gone. He looked up at her. “Can we say it now?”

She nodded. “Go ahead.”

Neal hopped up onto his knees and took Rummond’s face between his hands to turn it, pressing a solid kiss to his cheek. “Happy birthday!” he crowed right into his father’s ear.

Rummond managed not to cringe at the volume, and he wrapped his son up in a hug. “Thank you, duckling.”

“Happy birthday,” Belle echoed, still a touch unsure in her new knowledge of his history with the day.

He smiled at her over the top of Neal’s head. “The happiest,” he assured her.

“Do you want your present now?” Neal asked, and before his father could answer, he turned to look at Belle again. “Can we give him it now?”

She hadn’t yet been able to build a defense against the little boy’s big brown eyes. There was no dithering over it at all. Belle looked from Neal’s face to his father’s to find a smile twitching there.

“All right, give it to him, yourself,” she said, and he had bounced to the end of the bed to poke through the picnic basket before she had her sentence half out.

Neal clambered back in between them, holding a white package bound with a blue bow out for his father. “Open it,” he whispered urgently.

Rummond did so obediently, his smile sheepish, now that he actually had a present in his hands. He pulled the ribbon loose and placed it aside, carefully unfolding the paper so that he didn’t tear it. Enclosed was a small, rectangular case nearly the size of his hand, the outside covered in blue-black velvet, its capped corners and latch filigreed brass. He flipped the latch with his thumb and peered inside before opening the lid all the way back. 

“Belle…” he said with a shake of his head.

“Neal and I both went in for it. He helped me all day Saturday last, and he had a bit of pocket money to burn,” she said, on pins and needles as she waited for a reaction.

They’d chosen a full set of ebony and brass-plated steel manicure tools. Neal had decided on the particular case after petting the velvet, remarking how he thought his Papa would like how it felt.

“Thank you.” Rummond looked to his son, then to Belle. His heart gave a flip at the way her face brightened. “It’s lovely.”

“You’re welcome!” Neal chirped, wiggling with the inability to contain his glee that his Papa liked the present. He flopped back onto the blankets, tilting his head back to see Lieutenant Hargreaves, and waved cheerfully with both hands stretched over the far edge of the mattress.

“I’ve badly needed a new one,” Rummond said, closing the lid with a quiet click of its latch.

She gave him a grin. “Mm, I saw.”

“So, you’ve been plotting, have you?” he asked, a teasing lilt back in his voice.

“Plotting!” Belle clucked as though she were scandalized by the insinuation. “I’ll have you know that I don’t plot. I plan.”

He set the case down in his lap, hoarding it as close as treasure. “Being finicky with semantics, aren’t we?”

“Simply clarifying,” she said, leaning close.

The desire to kiss her curled in his belly. He could see it in her face, as well, in the way her lips parted and her eyes flickered to his mouth. Rummond stroked the back of his hand over her knee near him, bent where she sat with her leg beneath her. They each knew the want in the other, and it had to be enough. For the moment.

The box of watch bits rattled, tipping as Neal squirmed sideways. “Oops,” he said quietly, stopping and turning to see if he’d hurt anything.

“It’s all right,” Rummond said automatically. “No harm.”

He gathered the few components and a piece of jewelry chain that had slithered over the box’s side, replacing them, glad he’d already sorted out the screws to live safely in a pouch.

“I’m sorry,” Neal said, taking the lid and holding it out helpfully.

“No harm done at all,” Rummond told him. He took the lid and set it right down, grabbing his son under the arms and lifting him to sit nearer Belle and himself again. Neal sat still, seeming a bit wary, and Rummond took the box to place it in the boy’s lap. “Why don’t you have a look?”

Neal sorted through, the overcautious look leaving him as he began separating the bigger pieces in different corners together.

“What is all this?” Belle asked, peering in as Neal pulled out a watch chain that was almost completely intact. “You’ve been fiddling with it with some purpose.”

“Oh, here, not that bit,” Rummond whispered, as though he could hide it after Neal had held it up in the air. 

He’d been keeping the box covered, but here she’d caught him with it open. He had begun going through the contents as soon as he’d returned from Dr. Hopper’s office with it, having a close look at the parts. Though some of it needed a thorough cleaning, none of it was mangled beyond repair. He had an idea that it was on purpose, everything in the box being serviceable. The chains had a bit of damage - bent links, kinked connections, and the like - but with the small pliers in the tool case, it had occurred to him that he might be able to separate some of the decorative links from the functional ones and make a nice watch chain by piecing them back together.

Rummond had put together a double Albert chain and attached a diamond-shaped fob with granulation around its edges to the center of it. He was quite certain that the fob’s stone was a piece of polished volcanic rock. It mightn’t have been precious, but it was interesting and unique. He only hoped that the intended recipient would think so, as well. He had replaced the T-bar with a nice, big spring ring found among the other parts, and replaced the swivel clasps on either end with a pair from another chain, as one of the originals was a bit loose in its grip. The chain was nearly finished. There was a small sovereign case in the box that he meant to shine up and attach to one of the chain’s ends.

“Let Belle have a look at that,” he said to his son, and Neal offered it to her.

She took it, holding the ends between her fingers so that she could open it up. “You made this from the odds and ends there?” she asked with a goodly amount of wonder. “It’s beautiful. You’ll wear it to Christmas, won’t you?”

“It isn’t for me,” he said, hoping that it would meet her approval. “I mean to give it to your father.”

“My father?” Belle gave him a warm, fond look. “Rummond, you needn’t do that. No one expects you to bring presents.”

“Of course I’m going to bring presents,” he said, holding his hand out when she offered the watch chain back to him. “I’m not a barbarian.”

Despite eating a fairer portion than usual from his breakfast plate - with Neal’s help, as had become their Sunday morning custom - Rummond’s stomach positively growled when Belle began bringing lunch out from the picnic basket.

She opened lidded containers of neatly sliced roast chicken, potatoes and carrots and celeriac that were roasted along with it, as well as half a loaf’s worth of toasted pumpernickel. He had to swallow before he drowned. There was a napkin of walnut sandwiches he imagined she’d brought along just in case.

“Remember how I mentioned cake?” she said with a pleased smirk, enjoying his reaction to the lunch she’d asked Mrs. Potts to put together just for him. 

“I remember…” Rummond replied, setting the case from his lap over on the table so that he didn’t get anything on it.

Belle took an upturned food tin out, easing the container part off. On the lid there rested a whole, small cake about the size of a saucer around. It had been frosted in white, nib sugar scattered over top. “It’s a butter cake,” she said. “With currants and walnuts, and there’s orange marmalade inside. I thought I might have to fight Mrs. Potts for the marmalade, but she gave it up without an argument.”

“Belle, it’s too much,” he said, reeling a bit with it all. He felt his stomach growl again in demand of the small feast she’d brought along in her basket.

“You aren’t hungry?” she asked, and the disappointment that began to eke into her features was too much.

“I’m starving,” he admitted. “You didn’t have to do all this, is what I mean.”

“I didn’t _have_ to. I wanted to.” She beamed, her smile returning with reinforcement. “Unfortunately, the cake ring was far too unwieldy to bring along, so I’m afraid you’ll have to forego candles. Next year you’ll have some, though.”

Rummond snorted softly in amusement. “Ah well, I suppose I’ll just suffer without them.”

He could have moaned his way through the meal, if it wouldn’t have been obscene. He’d never had roast chicken so fine, and he even enjoyed celeriac for the first time in his life. It was actually a disappointment when he began to feel full. Belle laughed delightedly when he told her as much. She promised to leave the yet uneaten chicken and vegetables in one of the containers so that he could have as much as he liked again later.

They had just begun devouring the cake (at which point Rummond thought his eyes might roll back in his head), when Nurse Novak came chattering onto the ward with Nurse Lucas by her side. The awkward young nurse wore a pink lace dress and pink crocus tucked into her hair, and she went directly to Jezek’s bunk. The Bombardier was up from his bunk before she got there, putting on his robe and slippers. Rummond turned to see the priest coming up from the back of the ward, appearing more sober and lively than he had in months.

The ward broke into a little bustle as they left and some of the patients went to stand at the windows on the far side. Neal rose up on his knees, watching with his hands on the headboard of his father’s bunk. He looked on for a moment before tugging at his Papa’s robe sleeve. Just about that time, Nurse Lucas walked up and touched Belle’s shoulder 

“You wanted to be a witness? They’re about to start,” Ruby said.

“Oh! Yes. I’m on my way.” Belle set her piece of cake into the basket and looked to Rummond, resting a hand on his knee. “Astrid and Leroy are getting married,” she said, smiling. “I won’t be long.”

“I want to see,” Neal whispered as Belle hurried out. He tugged at his father’s robe again. “Can I see?”

There was no reason he couldn’t, Rummond figured. Everyone else was watching. He set their saucers out of the way and stood, holding his hand out to take his son’s. They went to the window, where Reyes made a space for them to stand next to him. Rummond picked Neal up, holding the boy so that he could see the small spectacle.

It appeared that most of the nurses on duty had gone outside to watch in spite of the bitter cold. Ruby stood up for Nurse Novak, and a short-statured man with round eyeglasses and a bit of beard just ringing his jaw stood with Jezek, all of them facing the priest. As promised, it didn’t take long at all. There were some words spoken, vows repeated, and a kiss that looked for a split second as though it was going to be quite chaste before Nurse Novak wrapped her arms around her new husband’s neck to keep him where he was. They couldn’t hear, but Rummond saw laughter go through the group of nurses. Even the priest ducked his head with a grin. He doubted there had ever been a smile so enormous on Jezek’s face as there was when they pulled apart at last.

He watched as they passed around the marriage certificate to the witnesses. Ruby handed it to Belle and turned around so that Belle could use her back to sign it, and Belle passed it along to Dr. Hopper. She looked over to the windows, eyes scanning until she found Rummond, and her smile broadened. Neal waved, and she waved back.

“Wave, Papa!” Neal directed him, and he did.

Nurse Novak went around hugging everyone ecstatically, practically bowling Belle over.

Rummond understood what they were doing, having the wedding in such a hurry and with so little notice. The Fowler woman could no longer legally lay a hand on Nurse Novak, half-arsed guardianship or not.

“I haven’t found Belle a Christmas present yet,” Neal said, looking at his Papa in concern. “It’s close, and I need to find one.”

“Do you not know what to give her?” He turned to return to his bunk with his son held against his chest, a small arm anchored around his neck.

Neal shook his head with a sigh.

“What does she like?” Rummond asked, trying to guide Neal into choosing something on his own rather than telling him. “You’ve been around her enough to figure that out, haven’t you?”

“Nurse stuff,” Neal said, unsure. “Doctor stuff. She likes her bicycle. And she really likes reading a lot.”

“Well, there are stethoscopes,” his Papa said, reaching out to give Neal’s earlobes a gentle pinch, making him giggle. “And there are writing sets, doctor’s bags, and there are always books.”

The boy narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, considering the options.

“A nice present might be something she would use often,” Rummond suggested. “Or that she could enjoy every day. Can you perhaps think of something like that?”

A bright smile broke through on Neal’s face after a minute of thinking, and he gave a sharp nod. “I think I can think of something.”


	91. Violation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (tw for discussion of past sexual assault)

“Happy birthday,” Belle wished him again the next morning, a whisper near his ear when she stopped by before her early rounds.

He was doing his best to make it about new things, good memories, as he’d said. It wasn’t an easy thing to cover over so many painful ones. The day had been an interesting one, though, thus far. And not in a terrible way, despite the top volume of the birthday greeting that Lieutenant Hargreaves had given him around dawn, alerting half the ward to it. He’d received more ‘happy birthday’ wishes on this particular morning than he likely had in the previous forty-four years combined.

The post was brought in just after breakfast, and for the first time since arriving at the hospital, the orderly who went around delivering dropped something on the end of his bunk. He was expecting something that he had sent off an order for - hoping that it would arrive in the next day or two, in actual fact - but this was not it. The single piece of mail was a thin box wrapped in brown paper, addressed in the blocky lettering he knew as Dove’s. Upon opening it, he found a simple note wishing him the same he’d heard all morning, and beneath that, watchmaker’s tools. Two screwdrivers and a pair of offset tweezers, each with his initials engraved into the handle. He showed them to Belle, proud to have even a few modest tools of his own. She’d sat with him to fuss over them a little before some flap across the aisle had taken her away and he’d set them aside in his bedside table drawer.

It was near lunchtime when Nurse Lucas’ grandmother paid the ward a visit. She wore an open basket on her arm, and her granddaughter came hurrying after her. It was a scene repeated on most occasions that Mr. Lucas visited.

“Granny, you couldn’t’ve done this while you were here yesterday?”

“Nonsense, Ruby dear,” the older woman said good naturedly. “I didn’t have the baking done yesterday.”

She approached Corporal Reyes’ bunk, interrupting the scarf he appeared to be nearing the end of, and Nurse Lucas was shooed away. Reyes gave her a great big smile, and Mrs. Lucas patted his cheek in the middle of a short discussion regarding the best yarn mix for the biting cold. She handed the Corporal something from her basket before turning toward Rummond.

Remembering how uncomfortable his first encounter with Nurse Lucas’ grandmother had been, he thought perhaps she might skip right over him. He tended to find a reason to be off the ward for a while when she came around. She stepped over to his bedside, though, smiling all the way.

“Good afternoon, Captain,” she said, clasping her hands against her middle, as the heavy basket allowed. “I haven’t seen you around in a while.”

He fought the urge to cringe. “I’ve been here.”

“My Ruby brought it to my attention that I might have been a bit too candid when last I saw you.”

“No, it- it’s-” Rummond shook his head. He didn’t care whether he received one of whatever Mrs. Lucas was handing out or not. The day felt odd, anyway, and he didn’t want to feel a repeat of the ridiculous panic he’d gone into during their first meeting.

“I want to apologize,” Mrs. Lucas carried on, her manner turning more stoic as she looked at him over top of her spectacles. “I know better than to speak the way I did in front of the servicemen here. I allowed my interest in the RFC to overcome my good sense, and I’m sorry if I caused you any difficulties because of it.”

Rummond blinked up at her, not in the least certain how to respond. She raised her eyebrows in obvious expectation, though.

“Thank you…” he murmured, still in a bit of surprise.

Mrs. Lucas nodded. Once her apology was done with, her smile returned and she took a parcel from the basket, holding it out to him. “Happy Christmas.”

“It’s his birthday, too, you know!” Lieutenant Hargreaves called over.

Rummond sent a glare Hargreaves’ way, but the Lieutenant only grinned.

“Oh, is it, now?” Mrs. Lucas said with approval in her voice, as though his birthday were some accomplishment. “Suppose it’s a good thing I brought extra treats, then.”

She gave him another little package from the basket, and his face warmed in fluster at the strange bit of attention. He waited until Mrs. Lucas had gotten past Hargreaves to send a grumble of, “You’re a right menace,” to his bunkmate and began poking around in what he’d been given.

There were a pair of fruit and nut scones and three chocolate biscuits inside, each small parcel of them carefully wrapped in a piece of butter paper and tied with red string. The pastries smelled delightful, and he could have sworn there was even a bit of warmth clinging to them. He took a biscuit and put the rest by.

Rummond’s mouth was full when Belle had time to perch on the edge of his bunk again. He reached over to his table, taking another biscuit from the open parcel, and held it out to her.

“She always brings enough to give the nurses, as well,” Belle said, attempting to wave away his offer. 

He gave the biscuit a little shake and hummed at her, and it took her a second to realize that he wasn’t simply giving her one - he wanted to share what he had. She accepted it with a grin, her fingertips stroking along the outside of his hand as she did.

“I _am_ a bit hungry,” she told him, breaking a piece off to pop into her mouth.

Not five minutes had she sat when raised voices resurfaced over at the far end of her section.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake…” She glanced around hurriedly, considering a place to put the half a biscuit still in her hand, deciding that her apron wouldn’t be terribly sanitary for the food or her pocket’s contents either. She finally placed it in Rummond’s hand when he offered to take it.

The earlier bit of a flap progressed right into an altercation. Graham was right behind her, having just returned Commander Strand from an appointment with Dr. Hopper. He helped to defuse the situation - and a good thing, Belle decided, when the two patients stood up from their beds to have an increasingly loud yell at one another.

“We really could do with six nurses per ward on shift,” she complained to Graham as they waited for Nurse Nolan to unlock the supply closet. The current arrangement meant four nurses actually _on_ the ward, with the head nurse and Nurse Nolan typically out of the room. “One nurse to every nine patients means there just aren’t enough eyes. Especially when someone is having a bad day.”

He gestured Belle in ahead of him to gather gauze and disinfectant. The patient who started the commotion had gotten a teacup thrown at him, and it had connected with his forehead rather solidly. The result was little more than a scrape, but being where it was, it was bleeding a bit.

“You aren’t going to find me disagreeing with you,” Graham said, fetching a set of sheets down off the top shelf of the linen cupboard. “Getting the help is the problem.”

Belle grumbled wordlessly to herself. She stopped mid-reach for a pot of ointment. _“You_ would make an excellent nurse…” she said, and he chuckled from behind her. She took the little pot and turned to him. “Don’t laugh. You already perform quite a lot of tasks that the nurses look after. And you have one of the best bedside manners I’ve ever seen.”

“I wasn’t being derisive.” He shook his head, wrapping his arms around the linens he held. “Don’t think I haven’t thought of it.”

“Then why not pursue it?” she asked. “If it’s something you’d like to do. There’s a pay increase. Granted, not a large one, but Graham, it would help _so_ much.”

He pulled in a deep breath, and she could see it in his face that he was tempted. “I’m not sure that Dr. Whale or Regina either would even allow it. Not every hospital is amenable to male nurses.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to try, would it? I would go along with you to have a talk with Dr. Whale about it,” she offered.

He gave her a wry look. “I don’t need my hand held.”

“And I don’t intend to hold your hand.” Belle rolled her eyes at his remark. “You would need a training nurse. And I could simply vouch for you, for the responsibilities that you take on already. Backup is never a bad thing, particularly when dealing with one’s superiors. Strength in numbers.”

Graham looked to debate it with himself for a few moments, but he gave in at last. “Fine. We’ll have a talk with the administrator. Don’t be surprised if he laughs us out of the office.”

“All right,” she said cheerfully. “Let me look after this lump on Captain Maldon’s head, and we’ll go on.”

It was a matter of minutes, patching up her patient’s scrape, done while he sat on a chair and Graham changed out his tea-spattered bedclothes. She washed up and hurried Graham along until she could head off to Dr. Whale’s office with him in tow, working out a plan of attack on the way.

“Nurse French, I just don’t have it in the hospital budget to hire on additional nurses,” the doctor interrupted as soon as she had it said that they needed another.

Belle smiled, though, ready for this argument. “You don’t have to.” She took a step nearer the desk, her stiff and formal posture fleeing in her enthusiasm. “Allow me to train Graham Humbert as a nurse.”

“Mr. Humbert, the orderly?” Dr. Whale asked a bit incredulously.

“Graham!” she called to him out in the hallway, and she waited the moment it took for him to step inside. “He’s interested, and he’s terribly adept. He’s a fast learner. He _already_ does nearly as much as the nurses. He’s compassionate, he’s-”

“Nurse French-”

“Nurse Halloran is ready to move on from training to full duties. The placement is right there, and I’ll have the time to train him. We could begin right away.”

“It is a nice idea,” the doctor allowed, “but it would leave you short an orderly, and the east ward _certainly_ can’t spare one of those.”

She had thought of that, as well. “Gus Muis has been floating between wards for months. Let him take a permanent position with us. He already knows the rhythm of the ward, and he’s worked with all of the staff there before.”

“Nurse French,” Dr. Whale said, holding up a hand to stop her so that he could get a word in. “As you and Mr. Humbert are both obviously taken with the idea… I see no problem with it, myself, in the manner you’ve presented. However, you _will_ require Nurse Mills’ go-ahead. And the hospital hasn’t been approved for the training of male nurses by the General Nursing Council. That would have to be seen to.”

Belle’s smile was dampened a bit, and she felt a definite bristling from Graham next to her. They would have to ask the head nurse. She had known that, but it wasn’t a pleasant prospect. “I have your agreement, though? In the event that she grants her own?”

Dr. Whale nodded, raising his hands from his desk in a gesture of surrender. “You do.”

“Thank you,” she said, and she swatted Graham’s arm happily as she opened the door.

She heard a second, “Thank you, sir,” from her friend before he left the office after her.

They were halfway down the corridor and with a heading of their own ward when Graham said, “Belle, if you change your mind about taking this on, I wouldn’t blame you. Not a bit of it.”

“What?” she looked over her shoulder, slowing to let him catch her up. “Don’t be silly. I won’t change my mind. I’m looking forward to training you.”

He walked along beside her all the way to the east wing and down to the head nurse’s office. The return trip was somewhat less exciting, what with their destination.

“Though… I would appreciate you coming in with me from the start this time.” She looked up at him. “If you don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” he said, resting a hand briefly on her shoulder.

She knocked on the office door. She wasn’t _nervous,_ precisely, but it never was enjoyable to speak about anything with Nurse Mills. There was a wait of a few moments before the head nurse called out, “Enter!”

Belle went in first, and she saw Nurse Mills’ eyes narrow. Somehow, Graham stepping into the office after her seemed to take some of the venom out of the woman’s expression. Once he’d closed the door behind them, Belle began making her case, laying the need and the facts out just as she had for Dr. Whale.

“No. We would be down an orderly, and we cannot afford that,” Nurse Mills replied cooly.

Belle, though going through the same reasoning over again, was quite ready to be prickly with her answers this go around. She kept the irritation with the head nurse crushed down as well as she could. It likely would serve her and Graham better not to let it color her side of the discussion.

“Gus Muis has been floating between wards, these last few months,” she said as lightly as she could. “This would give him a reliable place on the east ward. He knows how we work there, anyway, and I believe he gets along with everyone.”

Nurse Mills turned her eyes to Graham. “Aren’t we quiet?”

“As she’s offered to be my training nurse, I believe it’s to Nurse French to hash out particulars,” he responded very evenly, refusing to rise to her bait, no matter how innocent a question it seemed.

“Hm. I just don’t know about this.” The head nurse sat back in her chair, looking at the pair of them with a smirk on her lips. “How would such patients respond to the oddity of a male nurse? We do try to keep things uniform for them.”

Belle couldn’t help how she scoffed at Nurse Mills’ excuse. “I don’t believe for a second that the men on the ward would bat an eye at Graham moving over to nursing. There were plenty of men in nurse’s duties in field hospitals closer to the front. It’s far from a foreign concept for them.”

“I don’t believe this is something that should be hurried,” Nurse Mills said, taking the letter opener from its place on top of a sliced envelope, turning it in her hands. “I’ll think about it.”

It was Belle who felt a narrow-eyed look develop on her own face, now. The head nurse was being purposefully obstinate. It wasn’t a decision that needed great deals of consideration. A yes or no answer should have been easy to come by - and would have been, if not for the person they had to get said answer out of.

“You may go, Nurse French,” the head nurse said. “Mr. Humbert, I think we should discuss this between ourselves.”

Belle looked to Graham, and though his expression had turned pinched, he nodded to her. “You know where I’ll be,” she said. “Find me when you’re done.”

He felt as though a ball of ice grew in the pit of his stomach with the click of the door shutting. Regina came around her desk, and damn it all, he couldn’t help the step back that he took as she approached him. She stood far too close within his space, an unassuming smile curling at her lips.

“A nurse, now, is it?” She laughed, thumping the point of the letter opener at the center of his chest. “That’s what you want to do?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Graham grit out, forcing himself to hold her gaze.

“What will you do?” she said, though it didn’t sound so much like a question as mockery. “Train with Nurse French? Get a bump in pay? Add a few frills to the house?” She let the hand gripping the letter opener’s handle drop by her side and reached up with the other, holding his chin roughly. She wrinkled her nose in overtly threatening amusement as she asked, “Will you wear the apron, Graham? The little hat? How apropos for you. Though I’m certain you would cut a _fine_ figure in a nurse’s uniform.”

He hadn’t realized how he’d attempted to draw away or how she followed until his back hit the door. With him cornered, she slid her hand down from his chin to flatten her palm against his chest, holding herself inappropriately close. Graham stood stiffly, his body doing its best to press him right through the door and away from her.

“Get away from me,” he said before he realized he’d opened his mouth.

Her hand snaked across his chest, sending a sickening feeling through him as it moved over his heart and stopped to cup at him there. She watched his face as though she fed off his response.

“Don’t worry your pretty head. I don’t want you. I have something far better, now. A man who knows what to do with a _woman.”_ She pushed herself off of him, using his body as leverage to step away, and turned her back. She glanced over her shoulder at him. “You have your permission for nurse’s training.”

Graham left her office with his skin crawling and the bitter warning of nausea in his mouth. A phantom sensation of hands clung to him. Hands, mouth. Teeth and fingernails.

He turned away from the ward and lurched blindly toward the foyer.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

Corporal Reyes’ family had found him. The group came in near the end of lunch, a father and five brothers, each taller and broader than Reyes himself. They carried chairs over to place themselves around his bunk. The relief and happiness that poured off of them upon finding him had Reyes beside himself. He’d been yet another who had been certain that he couldn’t possibly be wanted back in his situation.

They were _loud_ and boisterous, and as glad as Rummond was for Anton that the boy’s family had located him, the clamor of their reunion dropped one more straw on his buzzing nerves. It was unusual to have so many civilians around in the middle of the week, but there was no one in any way willing to tell them that visitor’s day was generally confined to Sunday. The hubbub gave him an excellent chance to slip off the ward, however, and he made his way in the direction of the storage room.

It was somewhat of a shock to find the room occupied. Rummond stood back, watching Humbert pace the width of the room. He felt a little like asking whether the orderly had taken a taste of all the porridge, as well. It only took him a few seconds to discern that something was very wrong, and to go back to look for Belle.

It didn’t take much to find her. She stood just inside the ward doors, speaking to Nurse Halloran. The ginger-haired nurse was enthusiastic over their discussion, grabbing Belle’s hands and virtually hopping with glee. Rummond wouldn’t have interrupted for anything less than what seemed to be an emergency.

“Belle,” he said from behind her.

She glanced back at him with a smile and quickly finished her conversation with Nurse Halloran, sending the girl floating off to tend patients. Belle turned to him. “And where have you been?” she asked with a puckered little smile.

“Nowhere, apparently,” he replied.

Her teasing expression dropped when she caught the seriousness in his tone. “What’s the matter?”

“Your orderly seems to have taken up with my corner of the storage room,” he told her quietly.

Belle frowned. “Graham?”

“That would be the very one.”

“Why on earth would he-” Her frown turned confused, then moved into suspicion. “I think perhaps I should go have a look?”

“That might be best. He appeared…” Rummond shook his head.

“Do you need something before I go?” she asked. Something must have happened, if he’d been headed toward the storage room for himself.

Rummond gave a small twitch of a shrug. He could bury himself in his bunk, pull blankets over his head and drown out most of the sound of the enthusiastic visitors. “I’ll be all right,” he said. “Go and see to your orderly.”

He’d have preferred his particular spot there in the storage room to not become community property… But he worried what could have sent the boy hiding there, as well. It was a good place to retreat to, at least. Quiet and enclosed, safe as one could get here. He decided that he couldn’t resent Humbert needing his spot there for a while.

Belle managed to leave the ward at a walk, but once she left it behind, she found herself running down the corridor toward the front desk. If Graham was as upset as Rummond thought, then something was terribly wrong. Even had Nurse Mills decided to deny him a position as a nurse out of spite, it was unlike him to react so.

She opened the storage room door just enough to step inside. She could hear Graham in the back, just as Rummond said. He paced quickly, agitated, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

Tears shuddered in his eyes. There was anger - _so_ much anger - and a similar kind of shakenness as she’d seen in countless faces on the ward. He had never been one to become overwrought at work. He had to be pushed far across one line or another to do so. She’d understood for a while now that something had happened to make him harbor some quiet hostility toward the head nurse, but it frightened her a little that Nurse Mills had done anything to elicit such a reaction as this.

He didn’t seem to have registered that she’d come in. Belle took a couple of steps nearer, reaching toward him. He startled away from her touch before she made contact.

Oh. _Oh,_ she knew that sort of reaction.

“Graham?” she asked softly, standing back. 

“She gave permission,” he choked out.

Her hands fidgeted with themselves for a moment before she made herself drop them to her sides. “What’s happened, Graham?”

He crossed his arms more tightly. So much that it made his shoulders ache.

 _Just calm down! Let loose, you’ll enjoy it. That’s it, calm down…_

Hands, mouth, teeth, fingernails. She’d been everywhere at once.

He opened his mouth and it began coming out. Perhaps it had been forced down for too long, the foulness of it growing until he couldn’t swallow it back any longer. But out it came.

“She said she needed help. Out in that room the doctor had his electric shock machine in.”

“She… hurt you with the machine?” Belle asked, trying to piece it together.

Graham shook his head. He gave a laugh that sounded as if it hurt coming out. “I’d rather that.”

He reached the shelves on the far wall and turned. Five strides to the opposite shelves, turn.

“She locked the door,” he said, his expression collapsing into misery for a split second before he could clear it enough to go on. “Started telling me how she _appreciated_ how I looked on her ward.”

Belle’s stomach dropped.

“Got her hands under my tunic, started pushing and pulling, couldn’t keep up with her hands-”

“Graham,” Belle said again, and it came out thin and almost pleading.

“I pushed back and she _snarled._ Never saw a person look like that. She smiled. Went calm and started laying down threats.”

Belle understood, and as soon as she did, she wished that she didn’t.

“I could have gotten away from her. I _could have._ But I was terrified. The things she said she’d do… I talked myself into it being a small thing, to keep safe by. Give in, protect us.” His steps slowed, then stopped, as though he’d run out of fearful energy just that suddenly. He almost looked at Belle, not quite meeting her eyes, stopping when he got to the watch on her apron strap. “It wasn’t small.”

“No,” she whispered, horrified and trying to hold back for his sake on the rage that began to boil in her. “No, it wasn’t small.”

As if she didn’t revile the head nurse enough after the way the woman treated her patients. Knowing this was so far beyond the evils she’d imagined Regina Mills capable of. 

“And I left you alone in her office.” Belle felt sick. “Graham-”

He shook his head again. “I’ve been alone with her plenty. She’s made more than enough disgusting remarks. Today just…” He uncrossed his arms and raked his hands through his hair. “Suppose it was just a bad day for it.”

Graham sat down in the middle of the floor. The muscles of his legs didn’t feel as if they would hold him up for much longer. Belle stepped slowly over - he couldn’t blame her for being cautious - and dragged a box filled with linens closer so that she could sit on it.

“I didn’t mean to put this on you,” he said quietly, his words nearly buried beneath brogue and emotion and exhaustion. “I didn’t want anyone to know. I thought I’d never breathe a word. I’m sorry.”

“When was- when did this happen?” she asked, folding her hands in her lap and leaning over it.

“Before you were hired on,” he told her. “Towards war’s end.”

“You said threats - what threats did she make?” She wasn’t certain she wanted to know more, but she also knew that she had to help, if she could.

“The expected ones. That she’d do something to have Archie fired. That she knew he took care of his parents. Told me to imagine where they all might end up, if Archie could get no work. Said she knew we we’re mollies, and she’d tell Dr. Whale and everyone she could, if I didn’t…” Graham clenched his jaw against a wave of nausea. 

“I’m so sorry,” Belle offered softly. Her instinct was to hug him, but she was certain that there couldn’t be a worse time to do so.

“Things she _said._ Not the threats. During. Cooing at me. As if she might calm me like an animal. I’d never done anything of the sort with a woman. Never was so much as tempted. I just wasn’t- But I _responded_ to it,” he admitted, things he didn’t want coming out still tripping off his tongue, his face burning.

“It is _not_ your fault,” Belle told him with such anger that she surprised herself. “You reacted to what she did. It doesn’t mean a damn thing about you, and certainly not that you wanted or enjoyed it.”

A look crossed Graham’s face as though such an idea was a shock. It seemed to settle in, and she hoped fiercely that it would stick in his thoughts.

“Have you told Dr. Hopper?” she asked gently. “Does he know?”

“No!” Graham looked suddenly up at her. “He can’t. I don’t want Archie involved. He’d try to confront her, and there’s no telling what she’d do. I don’t want him to know. He can’t. Belle, you won’t-”

“Of course I wouldn’t. Not unless you wanted me to.” Belle let her hand slip off her lap, offering it to him, and she was relieved when he took it. She didn’t know how long she sat simply holding his hand while he stared at the hem of her skirts and breathed.

“I’ll be all right, Belle.” He squeezed his eyes shut, pulling the cuff of his tunic over his hand to wipe at his face. “I’m all right.”

There was a part of her that wished Graham would or could tell someone, but another part knew precisely why he hadn’t. How many people would believe him? She wished that he would tell Dr. Hopper. She _knew_ that Dr. Hopper would believe it. But the authorities? Or Dr. Whale? It hurt to know how unlikely it was.

“Can I hug you now?” she asked when he seemed to have composed.

Graham laughed a bit wetly. “You’re one of two in the world who never need ask.”

She leaned forward, wrapping her arms around his neck as he wrapped his around her middle.

Belle knew how few people would believe Graham. Hell, few enough believed it when a woman spoke up about being attacked. There was nothing that they could do except bide their time. 

It made her soulsick to entertain the very likely thought that Nurse Mills might get away with everything she’d done, all the harm she had caused, with no comeuppance. She didn’t know how she could behave civilly toward the head nurse, knowing this.

There would be some chance, she decided. There had to be. This _would_ stop. She only had to wait for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week kicks off their Christmas!
> 
> Also, going by my outline as it is currently, we’re more than 2/3 of the way through the story. If you have prompts you’d like me to try and work in, now is a great time to send them along!


	92. O Holy Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt - _anonymousnerdgirl said: "You realize I need Captain Rummond Gold to have a wee bit of fiddle playing in his background now. [...] Christmas. I don't know how he would get access to one, but it would be adorbs for Bae to say "You play something, Papa" because he remembers it from better times when he was little."_

Reyes had knitted something for everyone - men on the ward, nurses and orderlies alike. He’d been working every free moment, it seemed, and the shelf beneath his table had steadily filled with immaculately folded projects over the past few weeks. On Christmas Eve morning, Rummond at last discovered what they were meant for.

He woke to find a scarf on his bedside table. It was a lovely bluish-green, knit from warm, heavy wool, and just the right length to wrap twice around one’s neck on frightfully cold dead-of-winter days. He looked around to find a pair of socks on Hargreaves’ pillow and a pair of mittens on Strand’s across the aisle. When he turned to thank Reyes, the boy was absent from his bed, still dropping the presents off with their intended owners. 

It appeared that Humbert and Dr. Hopper were both spending Christmas Eve at the hospital, despite the staff being down to a skeleton. Nurse Jezek (née Novak) had been perched on the edge of her new husband’s bunk since sunrise. As Rummond began preparing to be fetched away from the hospital, the ward was acquiring noise almost as quickly as it did on visitor’s day. They were the usual suspects, for the most part, with the addition of Reyes’ family. A few relatives who didn’t seem to have been bothered to visit during the rest of the year had turned up. He was relieved to see one particular, familiar pair of people come in.

Alice and Grace Hargreaves had shown up bright and early. He’d seen them arrive as he returned from the privy, combed and shaven, headed to pack his toiletry bag away. Lieutenant Hargreaves’ face was a picture of perfect awe when he spotted them. Rummond overheard the Lieutenant’s wife mention how they were staying with the Lucases through Christmas so that they could be there. She didn’t mention, however, how the nurses had taken up a collection to send them money for the trip. Hargreaves had his pride, Rummond had learned, and his wife knew him well enough to keep that detail to herself.

Rummond quietly left the ward in his gown and robe, carrying only the small, borrowed satchel that Humbert had lent him to take along. It held an extra hospital gown and slippers, a few extra things from his footlocker, and of course his toiletry bag. All that he would need for his temporary absence. He crossed the few yards between the ward doors and the first examination room, and he let himself inside.

He’d asked Dove to run a few errands for him over the last couple of weeks. One such errand was sorting out a suit and overcoat from the house he hadn’t set foot in for more than a year. He hadn’t expected it, but Dove had gone so far as to take the suit in a bit so that it wasn’t so obviously oversized for his thinner frame before delivering it the previous evening. He had brought along a red and gold tie that Rummond was certain he’d never before seen, as well.

“The blue one is fine for wearing over. Too dark for Christmas, though, isn’t it,” Dove had informed him. “You needed something festive, didn’t you?”

Humbert had taken the clothing and hung it up in one of the ward’s infrequently used examination rooms to keep it from being creased. Rummond dressed as fast as he could without being haphazard, tying his tie in the reflection of one of the glass front cupboards. Before clocking out the night before, Belle had told him that her father’s driver would be there for him first thing. He didn’t want to waste a moment of the time he was allowed away.

It was already snowing when he stepped outside to find the tourer waiting. Great, heavy flakes dropped quickly, and the driver hurried out and around to take the bag from his hand and get him squared away into the back. The vehicle roared back to life and he was being hurtled away.

Six and a half months it had been since he was in a world outside of the hospital. He found it a bit intimidating somewhere around the pit of his stomach. It felt somewhat unreal, seeing trees and houses pass by the windows, the odd person with their front door open to receive Christmas visitors. 

He’d once taken it for granted, being a part of society. Having a place. Being useful in a broader sense. And now it felt strange to see how everything carried so normally on. Rummond fidgeted, thumb rubbing against his curled forefinger as he worried whether perhaps he wasn’t made for the greater world any longer.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

As soon as Mrs. Potts told her that Horatio had gone off to bring Rummond back, Belle had hurried to dress. She hadn’t had occasion to wear many of the skirts or blouses that she’d been ever so gently badgered into buying on their first trip to outfit Neal, and it was just as well. They still hung in her wardrobe, nice and new. 

She twice changed blouses and pulled hairpins out with nervous fingers three times before she was satisfied that her hair was arranged softly enough. She didn’t want anything resembling the severe bun that she wore every day. Ready all save the details, she spent a moment looking for the stick pin that had belonged to her mother - a golden griffin curled around a fat little sapphire. It was one she’d never worn before, remaining wrapped in one of her mother’s embroidered handkerchiefs and tucked away at the bottom of her jewelry box. It seemed appropriate for the day. 

Belle was pulling the end off the pin when she heard the crunch of tires on the gravel drive. By the time she’d run to the desk that sat at the foot of her bed and leaned over it to look out the window, the tourer had stopped. Rummond had his own door open - much to Horatio’s consternation, she was sure. She went back to light on the edge of the vanity stool only long enough to place the pin on her blouse, and she hurried out.

From the staircase landing, she saw him standing there in the entryway with Josephine and Horatio, the maid relieving him of his coat and gloves. She leaned over the banister to call down the hallway off of which her father’s study lay. “Papa, company!”

It wasn’t the most genteel form of announcement, but it had worked informally ever since she was young enough for it to be endearing. With the study door open, she heard his chair roll away from the desk.

Rummond looked up, going still with one hand halfway out of his glove. The maid went on and took it from him while he forgot to act as though the woman coming downstairs was no more than his nurse. 

He’d never had to ask after Belle’s favorite color. It seemed fairly plain in the way she dressed outside of work. She had a hand on the thick banister as she came hurrying down, her pretty, generously fitted blue lace blouse bouncing with her movement. There was glass beading in designs across the shoulders, beads trickling more lightly down the front. She wore it tucked loosely into the waist of a blue-grey bombazine skirt, long and slim, with buttons in two short and even rows. It nipped in far more closely at the waist than her nurse’s uniform did. She was beautiful, and he had to force his eyes away from her before he drew attention to either of them with his stare.

“Rummond!” she said a little breathlessly, and the sound made his heart skip. He had expected her to address him more formally in front of her family, and for her to not revert to calling him by his rank was a pleasant surprise. Her hands fluttered a bit at her sides as she came to stand in front of him. “The drive over was all right?”

He smiled - he couldn’t help it. “Just fine. Nothing much to report on a ten minute trip.”

“Wonderful.” She beamed up at him and turned to place herself by his side. “Rummond, this is obviously our driver, Horatio Cogsworth. And this is Josephine Plume, one of our maids. Horatio, Josephine, this is Captain Rummond Gold, Neal’s father.”

She only just had the first round of introductions done before her own father came striding broadly up the hallway. “Our houseguest, I must assume?”

Maurice French had expected a strapping lad of a sailor-slash-pilot to arrive at his door on Christmas Eve. He laid eyes on the man whom Belle had invited to spend the holiday with them, and found himself a bit relieved. This Captain Gold was narrowly taller than Belle, and he didn’t seem too much heavier, either, for that matter. He’d more grey than color in his hair. A bit gobsmacked, he looked down at the man and offered his hand to shake. Before he could get the words out of his mouth, Belle was introducing them. 

“Papa, this is Captain Rummond Gold,” she said, watching their reactions as though she needed to keep a close eye on both of them. “Rummond, this is my father, Maurice French.”

“Pleased to meet you, Captain,” Maurice said immediately, getting the greeting in before their guest could. “My Belle has told me a bit about you.”

“And you…” Rummond replied tightly. “Good, I hope.”

A dozen things ran through Rummond’s thoughts, among them worries that he would shake while Belle’s father still kept his hand, that he might stammer, that the man might somehow surmise how he and Belle had shared intimacies, that the man might know the things he’d done, and so on, and so on.

“What? Oh. Of course, of course,” Maurice bumbled along stiltedly. “All good. And from your boy, too.”

There was a thrilled scream of, _“Papa!”_ and Neal came barrelling down the stairs as someone following farther behind called after him, “Don’t run!”

Neal’s feet thumped all the way down, and he launched himself from the second to last stair as though he could take flight, trusting his father to catch him.

Rummond dropped to his knee just in time, nevermind how his leg hurt when he did, and opened his arms. His son landed, and Neal must have been a good twenty pounds heavier than the last time Rummond had caught him at such a leap. The weight swayed him, and he squeezed Neal as the boy’s arms clamped around his neck.

“You’re staying the night!” Neal squeaked.

“I know,” Rummond said, grinning and kissing his son’s cheek before letting him go. Belle reached for his cane where he’d let it drop to the entryway rug, and he took it to help himself back to his feet.

“I want you to see my room later,” his son said, reaching up for his Papa’s hand and tugging excitedly at it. “And the garden. And I made some drawings for you to see.”

Rummond nodded. “I will. I’ll see everything you want me to see.”

An older woman, heavy set and almost completely grey of hair, followed down the stairs with a little twill jacket carried in her hand. “It’s a wonder I got all the clothes on him I managed, after he heard the front door,” she tutted, bending to get the boy into said jacket. Reluctantly, Neal let go of his father’s hand long enough to have his arm put through the sleeve.

Belle stepped over to introduce Rummond yet again, her hand lingering at the bend of his arm as she did. Mrs. Potts looked from one of them to the other, and though she said nothing, Belle felt that there was something about her look. She tucked her hands innocently behind her.

“It’s a privilege to meet you, Mrs. Potts,” Rummond said, pressing the woman’s hand between his for a moment. “I want to thank you for helping to take care of my son.”

“Oh, well now,” she said, smiling and puffing up a little. “He’s a joy to have in the house. And it’s lovely to meet you, also, Captain.”

 _“Well,_ let’s not loiter by the door,” Maurice said, turning to lead them away. “Come come, we’ll go into the sitting room, enjoy the tree and whatnot, see what we might find to talk about.” 

Summarily dismissed by the master of the house, the staff went back to their day. Mrs. Potts gave Neal’s hair a pat before she headed back to the kitchen, where Christmas preparations waited for her to finish them.

With Belle’s father far enough ahead of them to get away with a whisper, Rummond leaned to tell her, “You are breathtaking, you know.” A sudden expression of concern crossed his face. “Not that you aren’t always. You-”

She smiled up at him, flushing with the pleasure of him noticing, and interrupted before he could stumble too far. “You’re quite the handsome gentleman yourself.” It was a different sort of pleasure that she felt when he ducked his head in response to her returned compliment.

Belle looked ahead of them, at her father’s back, and leaned to send a quick look down the empty hallway to the other side of the stairs before she reached to place a hand on Rummond’s shoulder, lifting herself enough to press a kiss to his cheek.

The back of Rummond’s neck prickled with heat over her daring little kiss. She walked ahead of him and he was glad - it meant that he couldn’t give in to the temptation to risk a peck on the cheek in return.

He did his best not to gawk as she led him into the sitting room. He hadn’t been in a house so lavishly furnished and decorated since he was a boy. The French home was a far warmer one already than the house he’d grown up in, though. Belle took a seat near the middle of the deeply buttoned pink damask settee that sat just next to the Christmas tree and a bit to the left of the fireplace.

Neal bounced onto the cushion next to her and wiggled, inviting him, as well. “Sit with us, Papa!”

It wasn’t an invitation that he could refuse for another chair. He sat next to the arm nearer the hearth and propped his cane against the graceful, curly-legged table next to it. Belle turned so that she faced him a bit better, shifting to curl a leg beneath her, and he smiled as he caught a glimpse of her blue and white paisley petticoat. 

Before anyone could initiate some awkward discussion, Mrs. Potts came in with a pair of porcelain bowls to set on the coffee table, one filled with ribbon candies and the other filled with nuts. She went around the back of the settee and nudged the back of Belle’s shoulder subtly as she passed.

“Like a lady,” she murmured before completing her circuit of the room by returning to the door she’d entered through, sending a look back to make sure she’d been heard.

Belle pulled a face and her leg from beneath her at the same time, crossing her ankles instead.

Conversation began with the weather. The likelihood of the snow falling all the way through Christmas. How they kept the fireplace going at this time of year despite the furnace because the cold was just a bit too pervasive without a good old fashioned fire in the hearth. How lovely Mrs. Potts ribbon candy was, and the meals that they had to look forward to over the next couple of days. 

Maurice turned the conversation to the hospital and how Belle invested so much of her time there. “What do you think of the quality of care that people such as yourself receive, Captain Gold?” he asked after having some complaint regarding Belle’s hours.

Belle frowned, and she looked to Rummond to find him looking at her father like a rabbit caught in a headlamp. “Neal is doing _so well_ in school,” she said a bit forcefully. 

Her father appeared a bit put out for a moment, but he went along with the switch in topics. As they discussed Neal’s improved handwriting and his last history test, the boy joined in, volunteering bits of things he’d learned in class. Though Rummond wished he’d been able to speak with some degree of detachment about the hospital, as Maurice had seemed to want, he hoped that Belle knew how grateful he was that she’d stepped in.

He had been there for perhaps an hour when there came a knock at the door. Belle turned to watch the sitting room door, waiting and curious. They weren’t expecting more company.

Babette stepped promptly in. “There is someone at the door for Captain Gold,” she said, and she waited for instructions.

“Ah!” Rummond took his cane and stood, a smile on his face that only served to worsen Belle’s curiosity. “I believe I know what this is about.”

Neal slid down from the settee and tagged along right on his father’s heels, and Belle followed, as well. She knew who it was as soon as they returned to the entryway and she found Lumiere looking quite a ways up at their visitor on the doorstep.

Dove held a small armful of presents, all wrapped in brown paper, each labeled with a small tag attached by a red string bow. A smaller woman stood next to him, and she carried a pair of wrapped packages, herself.

“Come in!” Belle said when she rounded the open door and saw them properly. “Come in out of the cold, both of you.”

Lumiere shook himself from his stare in time to close the door behind them. 

“May I leave these somewhere?” Dove asked, looking to Belle.

“Yes, yes… These are meant to stay here?” she asked, patting Lumiere’s arm and giving Rummond a suspicious glance.

“Each and every one,” Rummond said, reaching to take the presents from Dove’s companion.

Lumiere and Babette, standing by just in case she might still be needed, began taking the parcels from Dove. They ferried them into the sitting room to go beneath the tree.

“Rummond, this is Eirlys Powell,” Dove introduced. “The family I’m with, she works as their nanny, doesn’t she. Eirlys, this is Captain Rummond Gold and his boy, Neal, and this is Nurse Belle French.”

“I’ve heard so much about you, Captain!” the woman said, giving them a broad smile.

No taller than Belle, Eirlys had a short, sleek bob of black hair beneath her cloche, and lips so red that Ruby would have been envious. She looked at Dove as though he made the sun rise and set. Even as little as Belle knew of him, it gave her a peaceful sort of happiness that he had someone, as well.

Neal practically attached himself to his father’s leg, looking up at the giant while the adults went through yet another round of introductions.

“Why, the very spit and image of your father, aren’t you?” Dove said, and he went down on one knee so that he loomed _marginally_ less. Neal gaped up at him still. He gave the boy a slow wink. “That’s all right. He didn’t have much to say to me when I first met him, either, did he.”

“Would you like to stay for a while?” Belle asked as Dove stood up. “We’re just about to have breakfast.”

“Thank you, Nurse French, but we must be off, haven’t we?” he declined politely. “We’ve only a few hours before needing to be back at our stations for Christmas Eve festivities.”

Belle turned to Rummond when Dove and his companion had gone. She made a mute gesture in the direction of the sitting room. “Rummond. You didn’t have to do this.”

“I did tell you that I meant to bring presents,” he said, and she could have pinched him for the smirk on his face.

Josephine stepped just into the entryway. “Breakfast, miss,” she said, and left them when Belle gave her a nod.

“Papa?” Neal perked up at the mention of food. 

Rummond smiled down at him. “Go on, I’ll be right there,” he said, and the little boy trotted off in Josephine’s wake.

Belle worried about the little money he had, though she wouldn’t say anything of it. “I remember. _Still._ You shouldn’t have-”

“I couldn’t arrive without bringing something for Neal.” Rummond’s smirk softened.

“All of those presents are for Neal?” she asked, giving him a look that dared him to lie.

He appeared as if he considered it and thought more wisely of the attempt. “Perhaps not _all…”_

It was when he began twisting his hand nervously over the handle of his cane that Belle decided to let it go. “I suppose there’s nothing to be done about it now,” she said with a shake of her head.

“And Christmas is Christmas,” Rummond added a bit quietly.

Belle sighed. She moved closer, catching her hand in the bend of his arm. “A word of warning,” she began, urging him along with her toward the dining room. “Mrs. Potts has a heavy hand for seconds if she doesn’t believe you’ve had enough to eat.”

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

The cook added to Rummond’s dinner plate, clucking her tongue and muttered under her breath, “Far too thin.”

Breakfast, lunch, and tea had gone almost precisely the same way. He imagined Belle having to roll him back to the hospital, if this had been meant to continue for more than two days. Mrs. Potts seemed to have taken a liking to him.

“How do you know all that?” Neal asked, the bite of roast on his fork wavering between the plate and his mouth.

He and Belle had been discussing Father Christmas and all of his fabled doings - concrete facts, as far as Neal was concerned. Belle had come up with some things that the boy had yet to hear of.

“Well, that’s one of the benefits of getting older,” she said, smiling up at Rummond before looking to Neal once more. “You grow up and have a little one of your own, and you’ll get to have a sit-down with Father Christmas, talk about all _sorts_ of things.”

Neal seemed to consider this. He put the bite of roast into his mouth and followed it with a small piece of potato. “But you don’t have any,” he said after a moment. “And you know.”

He caught Belle in the middle of a sip of water, and she made the sip a longer one to cover for thinking. “No, but I do help to take care of you,” she said, setting her glass back in its place. “You matter just as much.”

“I do?” Neal asked, lighting up. He squirmed happily, looking across at Belle and then at his father next to him.

“Of course you do,” she told him, feeling a lump grow in her throat as his reaction to being told something so simple pulled at her heartstrings.

“It’s love that matters, Neal,” Rummond said, reaching over to graze his son’s cheek with the back of his fingers. “Not the relation.”

Maurice cleared his throat, and Belle wasn’t certain whether it was some discomfort with the conversation or from genuine need to do so.

They decided to have dessert in the sitting room, as it was only cake, and they’d meant to have hot cocoa next to the fire, anyway. Mrs. Potts took it along ahead of them on a tray with saucers and utensils while they were leaving the table.

Belle waited near the end of the table for Rummond and Neal to come around from their side. When they met, Neal stopped to tug at the side of her skirt. Looking, she found him pointing upward and she followed his gesture. “Oh…” 

Mistletoe was meant to hang in doorways, wasn’t it? The bright green sprig of it had been suspended from a string tacked to the ceiling over the end of the dining table. Belle figured they had Lumiere or Babette to thank for it - some of their flirtatious shenanigans amid decorating the house. She looked back to Rummond, who had followed Neal’s pointing, as well.

“We don’t have to,” he said, and she recognized the tone of his voice. He was giving her an out. He always did.

“Well, it’s bad luck not to,” she told him with a smile and a tilt of her head.

“I suppose, if it’s bad luck,” Rummond replied softly.

Hands clasped behind her, she went up on her toes to kiss him, catching the corner of his mouth. The desire to be close, to go on, was overpowering, and despite knowing that she should move away from him, she couldn’t bring herself to break the way he gazed back at her.

In the end, it was her father who did it.

Maurice chuckled. “Superstitions around Christmas,” he said, shaking his head and patting his stomach as he brushed past them to return to the sitting room. “We’ve enough superstitious nonsense the rest of the year ’round without inflicting it upon Christmas!”

“I don’t know,” Belle said. “Superstitions can be helpful. It depends on the sort.”

“I’m going to have my cigar in the study, Belle, dear. I’ll be in afterward.”

“All right, Papa,” she said, remaining somewhat distracted.

He asked as he went, “You’ll play some carols for us, won’t you?”

“As many as we can stand before bedtime,” she agreed.

“I know where the music is!” Neal said, and he took off, presumably to bring it out from the piano bench.

Belle gave Rummond a smile and turned to go, as well. She stepped out into the hallway, and it was a quick and easy decision that she made. The kiss beneath the mistletoe was far from enough.

She heard the sound of his cane on the wooden floor, and when he came out into the hallway, she reached for his arm. At her touch, he turned to look at her with wide eyes. She was relieved that she hadn’t startled him.

“Belle?” he asked.

She rose onto her tiptoes again, at first resting her hands on his shoulders, quickly moving them closer to his neck and then into his hair as she kissed him. Her cheeks flushed hot as she plucked a few short, soft kisses from his lips before indulging in a more lingering one. His hands finally moved to hold her, as well. His cane fell as they did, and she was glad that the runner in the hallway muffled the sound of it hitting the floor. His hands grasped at her waist, squeezing there, and the pressure of it sent a delicious shiver through her from head to toe. She sucked at his lower lip and felt a flicker of his tongue against her upper one.

“Dessert is ready, if either of you care to partake,” Mrs. Potts said.

Belle went down off her toes so hard that her shoes hurt her heels. She lifted a hand, delicately wiping over her mouth. 

“Thank you,” she said as the cook passed them. 

Mrs. Potts didn’t appear an ounce surprised. On the contrary - she was _grinning._ They were left alone again.

“Jesus, Belle, what if-” Rummond began, but Belle tried to keep him from winding himself up.

“It’s all right,” she said before he could implode into a bundle of embarrassment and nerves. The excited flush in his cheeks flamed brighter at being caught, and she rested her hands on his chest. “It’s all right, Rum. I promise. I’ll talk to her.”

She wanted to cup her hand to his cheek, to feel the heat there. But that way lay a far more lengthy delay. She dipped down to grab his cane and held it out for him to take.

He shook his head. “If she tells your-”

“She won’t,” Belle said, smiling up at him. “She didn’t have that look about her. Besides, she’s never told him my secrets before.”

Rummond hesitated. It took him a few moments to do as she asked.

She hurried a bit farther down the hall and into the kitchen, glad that Josephine and Babette were still busy clearing up the dining room.

“I’ve not said anything before I walked up on you, and I don’t plan on it in future,” Mrs. Potts said before Belle could get a word out. “That’s your tale to tell, when the time comes - though it should perhaps happen soon, if you don’t want your father finding out on his own.”

“How did you know?” Belle asked, though she stood agape for a second more before she could.

The cook snorted softly, giving her a sidelong look and a grin. “I know lovestruck when I see it, girl. I _was_ married, myself.”

“I- I don’t look-”

“Oh, I’d been suspecting you for having a gentleman friend for a while. The way you’ve been behaving.” Mrs. Potts shook the small, silver teaspoons in her hand toward the door.

Belle closed her mouth with a click of her teeth. “I haven’t been behaving any way,” she said indignantly.

“And I’m a teapot,” Mrs. Potts shot back. “Wait and you might hear me whistle.”

“How have I behaved differently, then?” Belle asked, her arms crossing themselves over her chest.

“You smile more, for one. Aren’t as given to looking out windows with sadness all over you. Last week, I caught you swaying your bottom to the tune you hummed.”

“Perhaps I’m simply happier now I’ve broken it off with Donat.”

“Belle, dear,” Mrs. Potts said, giving the girl she’d raised a fond smile. She shook a finger toward the door again. “You lit up. I knew it was him as soon as I saw the two of you in the same room.”

Rummond waited outside the sitting room door, hoping that his face would cool enough to go in before his absence became too peculiar. He could hear Neal inside, singing off-key Christmas carols to himself as he sorted through sheet music.

He heard familiar footsteps behind him, and he turned to find Belle coming back down the hallway.

“Is everything all right?” he asked when she approached him. “Is she angry? Upset?”

“She seemed amused by it more than anything,” Belle told him, still a bit bewildered.

He blinked, and she saw a bit of the fearful tension release from his shoulders. She lifted a hand, touching his cheek now as she’d wanted to outside of the dining room. “You’re safe here. All right? Don’t worry.” She leaned up, brushing a kiss over his lips. “I know it doesn’t help a great deal, simply saying so.”

“It helps.” A bit of a smile settled itself in one corner of his mouth, his hand coming up to play absently with a short line of beads low on her blouse. 

“Has my father surfaced from his study yet?” she asked. When Rummond shook his head, she took his hand, bringing him along with her into the sitting room.

Belle had him sit on the opposite end of the settee from where he’d been, telling him, “You can see me from here, if you sit a bit turned.” She took her cake and cocoa and sat down at the piano next to the window to play for them. By the time Neal had helped her to choose a carol to start them off, her father had returned for his own dessert.

“God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen,” was Neal’s first choice. “Angels We Have Heard on High” followed, and he set the music for “Joy to the World” in her lap halfway through it. When she finished, he was sitting on the floor next to her, looking through the thin sheet music booklets. He considered them thoughtfully before getting to his feet and going over to the settee, resting his hands on the carved wood of its back.

“You play something, Papa,” he said, leaning his chin on his hands.

Rummond smiled, but he had to shake his head. “I’m sorry, I can’t play piano, duckling.”

“No, your- your-” Neal frowned, not remembering the word. His solution was to hold a fist out in front of his left shoulder, the other hand moving in a sawing motion next to it.

His Papa gave him a funny look. “You _remember_ me playing fiddle?” he asked quietly.

Neal gave a quick nod. It was only one time that he remembered, but he did. “You let me sit on your lap, and you played a song.”

Rummond remembered it, as well. He’d been home on leave near the beginning of the war, when everyone thought that winning would be an immediate thing, and when he thought everything would be all right. He’d been trying to get Neal to sleep, and he had played one of his son’s usual lullabies while he held him. He hadn’t touched the instrument since.

“Oh. Well, I- I don’t have it with me.”

Neal’s face fell a little, but he went around to sit next to his Papa. He wrapped an arm around his Papa’s elbow and leaned against him.

“I have one,” Belle offered. Rummond, Neal, and her father all looked at her. Two looks of interest and one of disapproval. “Well, my mother did. But it’s mine, now. Just let me…”

She turned on the cushioned piano bench and held up a hand for them to wait, and she hurried up to her bedroom. She had to pull her vanity seat over to the wardrobe to fetch the case down. It sat on the topmost shelf, pushed to the back. It was a beautiful instrument, made of rosewood. Mrs. Potts had told her once that her mother’s father bought it for her seventeenth birthday.

Belle took the case back downstairs and set it on the coffee table before Rummond. “It’ll need to be tuned, I’m sure. It hasn’t been played in… a very long time.”

“You’re certain it’s all right?” Rummond asked, looking from the wooden violin case, back to Belle. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“You aren’t intruding.” She smiled, sitting next to him. “It’s meant to be played.”

Neal let go of his arm and he sat forward, carefully tripping the latches that held the lid closed. He found a cake of rosin in a little tin, as dried as he expected it.

“Have you a case knife?” he asked Maurice. 

A bit begrudgingly, Belle’s father said, “There’s a pencil knife in the desk there, if that will do.”

“That’ll do fine,” Rummond said, and Belle had already gone to fetch it. She brought it back, sitting next to him again, watching as he shaved the surface of the rosin down past the dried out bit. Rosining the bow was easily done from there.

He lifted out the violin, settling it between his collarbone and the left side of his jaw to tune it. Listening closely, he struck notes, feeling which were wrong and fiddling with the pegs and fine tuners until he got the sound that felt right. Tuning didn’t take as long as he expected. 

“What do you want to play?” he asked Belle, and she hopped up, going back to the piano. He took his cane and went to stand next to her, catching the crook on the arm of a chair sitting nearby.

“I was thinking ‘O Holy Night.’ Do you know it?” she asked, looking up at him.

He hummed an unsure sound and sat next to her on the bench, facing away from the keys. “Play it through once?”

Belle played and Rummond listened. When the song ended, he gave a nod, standing again and settling the violin in place once more. She began playing the song again and he joined in. The violin’s notes were rich and broad, and he allowed himself to immerse in the music. It had been _so long_ since he’d held a fiddle in his hands. To his surprise, it didn’t hurt the way he’d thought it would.

Rummond didn’t notice when the piano music drifted away as she stopped to watch him, eyes closed and brow drawn a bit in concentration. Belle could feel the notes reverberate through her, humming along her bones. Her throat tightened, some cloudy memory of music at the back of her mind almost focusing as she listened to him play.

He let the last note drift away on the air. The sound of a soft applause snapped his eyes open, and he turned pink about the ears. 

The staff had come to hover in the doorway, hearing a manner of music that hadn’t been present in the house since Belle’s mother passed. Mrs. Potts stood just inside the sitting room, a hand pressed to her cheek and half covering her mouth.

Rummond lowered the violin, casting around awkwardly for a moment before he limped back to the settee, feeling backward and uncomfortably observed.

“I believe I see where the boy gets it,” Mrs. Potts tutted softly as she shooed everyone out again. She began gathering the used dessert dishes onto the tray.

“That’s all of the carols?” Neal asked when Belle rose from the piano and made her way over to the settee to sit next to Rummond.

“That’s all for right now,” she told him gently. “We’ll have more carols tomorrow, darling.”

Rummond looked so lost. She wanted to wrap her arms around him, and she was growing absolutely sick of being in positions where she couldn’t do just that. She reached across, curling a hand over his wrist.

“Rummond?” she asked, quite aware that her father looked on.

He turned his head toward her, his eyes flicking up to meet hers. “I’m all right,” he said automatically. He put the violin and bow away, tucking the piece of rosin back into its tin, and closed the case.

“Darling, why don’t you tell your Papa a bit about the book that Mrs. Lapointe gave you to read?” Belle asked, enticing Neal into talking about school a bit more and hoping that it would draw Rummond out again. 

It took a few minutes for Rummond to do more than listen with interest, but it worked. Neal began to talk about the friends he had in class, spinning into an explanation about a game that they often played during the long afternoon recess. When he hit upon how they’d pretended to be aeroplanes the previous week, he switched to talking about Emma Nolan, chattering cheerfully about things she’d said and did when they played together at the hospital.

“Her papa flies aeroplanes, too!” Neal said, beaming.

“I know.” Rummond smiled back at him. “We’ve talked about that, her papa and I. He’s an excellent pilot.”

“So are you,” Neal declared, dropping his head back to rest against his father’s ribs.

“I’m not a pilot anymore, son.”

Neal turned his head without losing contact. “How do you stop being a pilot?”

“You… simply do, sometimes,” Rummond said. The explanation was unfit for his son’s ears. He snugged Neal against his side.

“I recall seeing your name in the papers a fair bit,” Maurice said, looking off into the fireplace through the screen shielding the sitting area from it. “During the war and after. You _were_ quite the pilot.”

Belle gave her father a sharp look, hoping that it would quiet him. She should have discussed forbidden topics with him with more clarity, she supposed. She’d given him a bit too much credit in thinking he would bloody well know what to avoid.

“Past is past,” Rummond mumbled, looking down at the knee of his suit trousers. He dusted an imaginary bit of something from it.

“Those trials in the papers, as well. Awful, the way they painted it all wrong.”

“Papa,” Belle warned, hoping to stop him. 

At another time, in a room that didn’t have Rummond or Neal in it, she would be glad to hear him speaking in support of servicemen like those on her ward. His opinions had begun to shift somewhat in the wake of a very long talk after she’d informed him that Rummond was visiting over Christmas.

“I’m being sympathetic,” Maurice huffed. “Wasn’t aware of all the courts did to you men who came back in a condition. Not until Belle told me. A damned shame.”

“Papa, that’s _enough,”_ she finally said, and the look of surprise he gave her for her tone very nearly rattled her. She stuck her chin out stubbornly. This might be her father’s house, but Rummond was _her_ patient, and she held control concerning what he was exposed to here.

Maurice looked to his houseguest with a scowl that rapidly fell away.

Rummond had gone quiet, his eyes unable to focus on anything for very long. The hand that wasn’t holding his son rested in his lap, tense and trembling. He scored the edge of his thumbnail into the side of his index finger. 

“Rummond,” Belle said, placing her hand over his. He didn’t look at her, but his hand stilled.

“I’m fine,” he replied, and she didn’t know whether it was obvious to anyone else in the room at that point, but it was clearly a strained response.

Mrs. Potts sent a glare over at her employer and left the tray of dessert dishes by. She went to nudge Neal up, and as she did, his father moved his arm to allow it. “It’s a bit late. Why don’t we go and get you ready for bed, dear,” she said, guiding him along a step.

Neal balked a little. “Can’t I stay with Papa?”

“You go on, get ready. Father Christmas won’t come ’round until you’re sound asleep, you know,” Rummond told him, smiling a bit wanly. He reached to cup his hand to his son’s cheek, doing his best to force himself not to shake. “I’ll be up to tuck you in.”

Belle knew the look that Rummond had about him. He needed a space to breathe for a few moments or he would fall apart there in the sitting room, and that wasn’t something he would forgive himself for easily. Once Neal had been ushered away and she was sure that Mrs. Potts had time to get him upstairs, she reached for Rummond’s cane. He seemed to have been waiting for the same thing, because he pushed himself up from the settee.

“I need-” He shook his head. “Is there a downstairs privy? The, ah- ah-” _How_ was he struggling for the word? His eyes closed as he searched for the right one. “Washroom. Where is your washroom?”

Belle was already up from her seat, hand on his arm. “I’ll show you,” she said. Then more quietly, when he was up and she was steering him toward the door, “It’s all right. Here.” She threw another look back toward her father, who had the decency to appear shamefaced.

He didn’t make it to the washroom before he had to sit. They stopped at the stairs, and he dropped onto the third up, simply trying to breathe, pulling air into a pair of lungs that didn’t seem to want it. And oh, God, he was here with his son and Belle, where he should be out there behaving like a reasonably normal human being. How useless was he, that he couldn’t so much as get through a single evening?

“Some sorry excuse for a father I am-” he began, and a panicked, stuttering gasp choked off his own words.

“You are not a sorry excuse for anything, Rummond,” Belle told him. “Everything I’ve seen of you, especially in regards to that little boy, is a testament to what a wonderful father you are.”

“No matter what I do, what happened - what I did - it’ll follow me. It’ll follow Neal. He’ll be the son of a coward for as long as anyone remembers me.”

She squatted down, resting her hands on his knees, trying to get him to look at her. He avoided her eyes. “You are not a coward. You are _so far_ from being a coward, Rummond. Do you know, you’re one of the bravest people I’ve ever met.” He cringed when she said it, and she moved a hand to curl over his forearm. “And as far as the trial goes, you were found not guilty. That’s a matter of public record and anyone who refutes it does so in dispute with His Majesty’s court.”

“No… My father traded in deals and greased palms to get that verdict.” He gave a slow shake of his head. “I’d have been found guilty if not for his crooked connections. What if- what if that would have been better for everyone?”

“No,” she snapped, shaking her head. “I refuse to believe that.”

“What then, exactly, have I made better by existing after my trial? My son’s life? Yours?” Rummond asked wearily.

 _“Yes!”_ she said so sharply that he looked up at her in surprise.

She brushed her skirts straight as she bolted to her feet. “If not for you, I might still be engaged to one of the most secretly contemptible louses this side of the Atlantic. Your son would still be with your ex-wife and that- that- ridiculous excuse for a man, had you been convicted, and you know good and well what sort of life he had there.” She was scolding him at a terrible time and she knew it, but her stress had reached its limit over the past week, and his insinuations that he might be better off dead struck her on precisely the wrong nerve. “You would see how you’ve changed both our lives for the better by existing, if you would only look, you great fool!”

Belle exchanged a stern look with his stunned one. “I’m going to get ready for bed,” she told him, stepping past him on the stair, leaving him turned to gape after her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have an auditory aid this time! The [violin version of “O Holy Night”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1q43RZgQSC4) I imagined as Rummond played.


	93. Love Came Down at Christmas

“Ah, good night, then. I’m heading off to bed, myself. It’ll be an early morning and a long day,” Maurice replied when Rummond went back in to excuse himself. He’d remembered that he needed to do that much, at least.

He wasn’t certain whether Belle’s father seemed a bit wary and overcareful with words or if it might’ve been his own imagination. There was a good chance either way, he figured. 

It had taken him a good ten minutes of concentration, blocking out everything save the deep breaths that he pulled in by force, to compose himself enough that he could move from the stairs. He’d upset Belle, made her angry with him, and he was uncertain how to fix it. 

Rummond stood before the hearth for a moment, feeling awkward and warming hands chilled by panic. He didn’t want Belle’s Christmas ruined by his idiocy. His foolishness. His Aunties had counseled never to go to bed angry at one you loved. That memory was what decided him on going to find her. He first needed to do as he’d promised, though, and tuck his son in.

He went upstairs, Maurice trundling along ahead of him. Belle’s father disappeared into a room at the far end of the hall as Rummond stopped at the door that sat open onto what was clearly a child’s bedroom. He went inside, hearing Neal’s voice. With the first thump of his cane on the floor, his son’s head poked out from the washroom.

“Papa?” Neal said. He hopped out appearing to have on only his button-down and socks, and Mrs. Potts stepped into the doorway after him.

“I’ll get him ready for bed, if that’s all right?” Rummond asked.

“Just fine,” she said with a nod. “He gets a bath tonight. And a story before he’ll go to sleep.”

Rummond looked down at his son, resting a hand on top of the boy’s head. “I’ve given him many a bath and bedtime story. We’ll be all right.”

“I’m sure you will. I can put the time toward preparations for tomorrow. His nightclothes are in the dresser, bath things are in the cupboard. Good night, Neal.” She gave the little boy’s cheeks an affectionate squeeze between her thumb and forefinger, and she bustled away.

“G’night!” Neal said before she pulled the door closed. He reached up for his father’s hand, taking it off his head and swinging it back and forth. “Bath and then bed. And then Christmas!” he chirped happily.

Rummond smiled down at him. “That sounds like the proper order of things. Come on, let’s get started, then.”

Neal let go of his father’s hand, feet patting the floor as he took off into the washroom. Rummond took off his jacket and folded it neatly over the foot of the small bed before following him in and running the bath. His son’s painful experience with at least one bath while in Milah’s care was painfully present in his memory, and he took care in adjusting the temperature.

He took down the bath supplies that Neal pointed out in the cabinet, then removed his cufflinks and tucked them into his waistcoat pocket, rolling his sleeves up while the water ran. Kneeling on the folded towels that Mrs. Potts had placed on the tile next to the bath for her own knees, he held his son’s arm while the boy stepped carefully over the side and into the water.

“Not too warm or too cold?” Rummond made certain.

Neal shook his head. “Just right,” he said as he sat down.

It was an easy ritual to pick up again. Hair first, then the rest, and a little dawdling to play before getting him out. Neal ran cupped hands through the water, intrigued by the waves he could create by making them follow one another versus colliding head on from opposite sides of the bathtub. Growing a little too enthusiastic, he splashed a pair of waves upward. Rummond blinked when the spray hit his face, and he grinned, resisting the urge to splash back at his son in a strange bathroom. 

The look of shock on Neal’s face when the water went out of his control brought a laugh from his father. Neal, however, stopped playing and sank down into the water up to his nose.

“Ready to get out?” his Papa asked. “Father Christmas will be around this way soon, and we don’t want to be awake when he arrives, hm?”

Neal nodded quickly. He reached in to pull the stopper, then grabbed hold of his Papa’s arm to brace as he stood and stepped over the side again.

“Belle and Mrs. Potts put me by the vent,” Neal said once Rummond had wrapped a towel around him, using another to ruffle his son’s hair mostly dry.

“That’s a good idea,” Rummond said. “Keeps you from getting cold before you have your pajamas on.”

Neal showed where the vent was, and he stood basking in the warm air while his Papa set the washroom to rights and then sorted underwear and a pair of nightclothes out of the dresser. His Papa sat in the rocking chair that he had trouble making go on his own, getting him dressed and rubbing a little more water out of his hair. Clean and warm and in a pair of the flannel pajamas that had arrived with the delivery after he and Belle had gone shopping, Neal walked around his room to point out the more important things for his Papa. The desk where he did most of the schoolwork that Mrs. Lapointe sent home - except arithmetic, since he still needed help sometimes on that and so did it downstairs with Belle or her papa. The bookcase where he and Belle chose what to read at night. The bed that had been Belle’s when she was as small as Neal, which he _still_ had trouble imagining.

Rummond listened closely, turning to look at each thing his son needed to show him. After the warmth of Neal’s bath, though, he began looking sleepy rather quickly, so it didn’t last too long. Neal leaned against his father’s legs, telling him how Belle’s mama gave Fleep to her.

“You remember Fleep?” Neal asked, looking over at the teddy bear where it rested against his pillow. He left his Papa only long enough to retrieve it. 

“I do, indeed,” Rummond said as his son handed the stuffed toy to him.

“Belle _gave_ him to me,” Neal said, appearing quite awed by the fact of it. “She says I can _keep_ him.”

“Did she, then?” Rummond petted Neal’s hair, repairing the ruffling inflicted by the towel so that there might be some hope of making it presentable in the morning. His son’s eyelids grew heavier as he looked on. It wasn’t lost on him, that Belle had given Neal such a dear toy.

Leaning on his Papa’s knee again, he nodded slowly.

“Is there any particular story that you want?” Rummond asked. Belle had mentioned that she read longer books to Neal a chapter or two at a time, but he wasn’t sure whether reading from the one that they were in the middle of might be stepping on toes.

Neal shook his head, though. “Up,” he said, stepping a foot onto the rocking chair’s front rung with the clear intention of climbing into his Papa’s lap.

Rummond took the bear and set it aside, lifting his son up. Neal didn’t sit for long before he squirmed down, naturally ending up in a position to be cradled. Rummond held him close, pushing a foot gently against the floor to rock them. He caught the heel of his other foot on the rung beneath the chair to give his son a place to rest more easily.

Neal’s eyes drifted shut, but they flashed open again with a start. “You’ll be here when I wake up?”

“I’ll be here when you wake, duckling. I promise,” his Papa said.

He fought the sleepiness that tried to tug him away, wanting to be there and held onto as long as he could. Neal patted his Papa’s chest before his arm slid down to curl against him. Drawing it closer, he popped his thumb into his mouth and lost the fight.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

Belle had already begun to feel badly for the sharpness of her tongue before she reached her room, and by the time she was out of her day clothes and taking down her hair, she was intent on going back to smooth it over.

After a moment in the washroom, she made a walk of the house before circling back to the guest room where Rummond was staying, just across the hall from her. Her father had retired, and the staff had turned off most of the lights downstairs. Only the kitchen light was still on. Mrs. Potts would likely be up for hours yet, doing all that could be done the night before for the next day.

She knocked lightly at the guest room door. There was no answer. If he was that fast asleep, she hated to wake him. Though, surely he wouldn’t be asleep so soon? She wondered whether he might have been further upset by the way she’d said what she said, and the thought of it made her stomach knot up a little. Belle waited a bit, then turned to head back to her own bedroom. She would see him in the morning, at least, and she hoped to make it right then.

There was light coming out from under the door of Neal’s bedroom. With Mrs. Potts back in the kitchen, she’d assumed Neal to have been put to bed already. But with his father here, of course…

Slowly, quietly, she eased open the door, and she found Rummond there rocking his son to sleep. He looked up, and her heart ached with relief at the way his eyes lit up when he saw her.

“Should I go?” she mouthed, pointing back over her shoulder.

He shook his head, smiling before he looked down at Neal again. He was singing something softly, and Belle stepped just a little farther into the room to listen while she waited for them to finish. Rummond patted his son’s back gently as he sang. It took her a while to identify the tune, and then a few moments more to understand that he patted in rhythm with the beat of his own heart.

It wasn’t as though she needed anything more than she already had to tell her how right it was, what they had going on between them, but if she had, oh, the scene she stood witness to could have been the foundation of her sureness.

Rummond ended the song gradually, his voice drifting away until there was quiet. She felt some sense of the room being a little emptier without it. He rose from the chair, moving slowly so that his limp wouldn’t jar Neal awake. Belle knew that it must hurt, the awkward movement and extra weight on his leg. 

She went over, pulling the sheet and blanket back so that he could lay his son down, and crossed to take Phillipe from the floor next to the rocking chair. Turning back, she caught Rummond brushing a kiss against his son’s temple, stroking the back of his fingers over Neal’s cheek before tucking the covers around him.

Belle held Phillipe out to Rummond, nodding to Neal, and he took the teddy bear to tuck in as well. She watched him while he watched his son sleep for a moment.

Rummond took his jacket from the footboard and his cane from where he’d leaned it against the little table next to the bed. They left the room slowly, and he pulled the door closed as silently as he could.

“‘All Through the Night’?” Belle whispered as they crossed the hall.

Rummond smiled, one corner of his mouth pulling a bit higher. “One of my Aunties sang it to me when I was a wee thing. I suppose it stuck.”

“It was lovely,” she told him, and it didn’t seem enough to say in comparison to how it had felt to hear him sing. She gestured to the door she’d earlier knocked at. “This is your room.”

He stepped inside, leaving the door open after him, and Belle followed. She went across to the bedside table, the wide butterfly sleeve of her dressing gown draping open as she reached out to turn the lamp key so that they would have some light. He laid his jacket over the back of the short chaise to the right of the door, where his borrowed overnight bag had been placed.

“I know he’s too old to be rocked so, really, but…” Rummond shrugged a little as she walked over to him. “He climbed up, and I couldn’t’ve said no if I’d wanted to.”

“Nonsense. You’ve not been able to rock him to sleep for a very long time.” She smiled warmly up at him, lifting a hand to lay it on his chest. He was still overwarm from holding his son. “Both of you need that. You’ve been separated far too much. There isn’t a thing in the world wrong with it.”

She took her hand back and turned away. Something in Rummond ached to stretch toward her, missing the small, anchoring point of contact she’d given him. She lingered at the door for a second, her back to him, and he was just about to wish her a good night when he heard the lock _click_ into place. 

“Belle?” he asked as she turned back to him.

She fidgeted with the lace ruffle that lay limp at her waist. “I thought I might stay?”

“Now?” he whispered so softly that the word was all but mouthed. _“Here?”_

“The door locks,” she said as though it weren’t the most obvious thing in the world. “With Neal down, the entire house is asleep. We’re safe. So we can. If you want.”

Rummond hesitated. He did, but there was still a worry creeping through his thoughts about their earlier exchange on the stairs. “I thought you were angry with me?”

“I wasn’t angry with you,” Belle said, stepping nearer him again. “I was frustrated. In general, with the entire last week or so. And frustrated that you can’t see yourself the way I see you… But not angry.”

“I didn’t mean what I said on the stairs,” he began.

“I know you didn’t.”

“Things that go through my head when I have those sorts of episodes-”

“I know. And I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

“No, you were right. You were only saying what I know when I have sense about me. I’m sorry. I should have been able to keep my wits and-”

“Don’t apologize for what happened in the sitting room. I know you can’t control those panics. It’s not about that. It’s _not_ about that.” She held an open hand up between them, emphasizing her words. Her fingers relaxed inward and her hand dropped when she saw how Rummond’s eyes locked nervously on it. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for. I’m sorry that I called you a fool.”

“You were stating the obvious. I know that Neal is better off now. I _know_ it. He’s better off with me. With _you,”_ he corrected himself quietly. “He’s better off now.”

“You’ve apologized, I’ve apologized. Emotions were running high. _It’s all right.”_ She looked up at him, stubbornly holding his gaze until he nodded. 

Belle found his hand with hers and drew him over to the bed, giving him a nudge that he understood as asking him to sit down. She took his cane, leaning it between the bedframe and table, and gently insinuated herself between his knees. His hands came up, fingers playing distractedly with the lace netting that overlaid the bottom of her dressing gown.

“You feel better?” she asked. “Tell me the truth.”

Rummond nodded again. “I was only worried that you might be-”

She raised her hand, her middle fingertip touching his lower lip, and he quieted instantly. With the other hand, she cradled his cheek. His eyes fell closed, and she took her time touching him. Her fingertips skimmed gently along his cheekbone. She used the pad of her index finger to touch the edge of his eyelashes, golden in the lamplight. 

Belle let her hands move down to rest on his chest. She looked at him, wondering at the way his heart pounded from the lightest of touches.

With her still, he opened his eyes again, looking curiously back up at her. She brought her hands back to her own clothing, pulling loose the belt that held her dressing gown closed. The skirt of it was filled with ruffles and pleats and lace that dropped into a froth of silk to the floor when she pushed it back from her shoulders.

“That…” Rummond said, and he could practically feel a blush rising all the way from his toes. The thing she wore underneath was pale blue and filmy, the embroidery the most opaque bits of it, edged with yet more lace. It left little to the imagination. He could perfectly see the shape of her through it. “I feel confident in saying that is not a winter nightdress.”

“It isn’t.” Belle grinned, pleased with the effect it had. “This is special. You did say that you wanted the next time to be nicer. And slower.”

She took his hands in hers to put them on her, gathering the hem of her nightgown higher until he got the idea and took over.

The fabric of it weighed nothing as he lifted it, stretching to pull it over her head. Her hair was lifted for an instant, falling back down very nearly to her waist, enough of it going down her front that it covered her breasts. He’d never before been able to properly see how long it was, always up in some fashion or another, and he admired it almost as much as he admired the rapidly baring shape of her. His fingers itched to run through it. She swept it back over her shoulders and his mouth fell open a little. 

Belle reached for him again, pulling his tie out of its four-in-hand and sliding it from his collar, letting it coil on the bed next to him. His hands went to his waistcoat buttons, and she slipped her fingers in beneath them with a smile, making short work of it. He shrugged out of it as she slipped the front buttons of his braces through their buttonholes and dropped them behind him. 

“Your shirt is damp,” she said, unfolding his sleeves.

“I gave Neal a bath.” He smiled up at her. “First time in a year and a half I could.”

She smiled fondly. “And how did it go?”

He shook his head in amusement. “It went well, if a bit more bathwater got outside of the tub than I’d planned.”

“Mm, I learned quickly that splashes go with it,” she said, her hands next going for his shirt buttons, eagerly tugging the tails from his waistband. He worked it off his shoulders, as well, when she finished, at last getting to the soft undershirt beneath it.

Her goal had been to have them both undressed before she indulged in anything that might draw out the process of it, but what could a kiss hurt? She threaded her fingers into the hair that curled over his collar, bowing her head, glad that he caught on as she did. His hands hovered for a moment before resting on her hips, his fingers spreading against the soft swell of her bottom. 

The feeling of his teeth grazing gently over her lower lip, the lingering taste of chocolate, the smell of him made her head spin with want. She curled her fingers more tightly in his hair and kissed him harder, kissing him until she was forced to stop to catch her breath and allow him to breathe, as well.

Rummond stared up at her, missing her lips on his despite the desperation for air that had been developing when she pulled back. She hadn’t let go of his hair, her grip on the edge of painful. 

“All of it,” she said at last, looking down at his undershirt and trousers. “The lot of it, off. I want to see you.”

He looked down at himself, an expression of dread threatening his features, and she followed what she suddenly realized must have sounded much like a demand with, “If it’s all right?”

Belle let go of his hair, petting it against his neck, her fingers stroking along the border of his undershirt. She heard Rummond sigh, and she slid one hand into the back of his collar, giving him skin to skin contact. He made a soft sound of pleasure that sent a wave of warmth through her.

“I’m just going across the room,” she said before she moved her hand. 

She took his button-down and waistcoat from the bed and went to lay them over the chaise, to keep them nice and uncreased for the next morning. When she turned back, he was tugging his shirt free from his trousers. Belle watched as he pulled it over his head, dropping it next to him on the blanket.

He lifted his eyes to hers in a bit of apprehension, and she smiled, looking at him, enjoying what she saw. Rummond was small. Narrow and thin, though not as thin as he was even a month ago, thank heavens. She could tell that he’d gained weight since the last time they were able to be together. His ribs weren’t as prominent. 

Belle stepped closer, between his legs again, and placed her hands on his shoulders. She wanted to see him in better light, but the lamp would do for now. There was a bare dusting of light brown hair on his forearms, though none she could see on his chest. She thought that she could see a little beginning just above his waistband. Her tongue flicked out to wet her lips.

She wanted his trousers off, and badly.

She climbed onto the bed next to him, the little pair of short, blue silk drawers she had on fluttering around her thighs. The mattress dipped gently under her weight as she knelt there, sitting on her feet.

“The rest?” she asked, hoping to encourage him.

It took him a moment of bolstering himself, but he stood and unbuttoned his trousers. His hands hesitated before he pushed them down, and he had to brace on the table for balance as he stepped out of trousers and underwear at the same time. He tossed them over with the rest of his clothing, glad that they landed reasonably flat.

Belle’s hand took hold of his, and she drew him back to sit with her.

“How did this happen?” she asked, resting her hand on his bare thigh with a short, jagged scar framed in the curve of her thumb.

The breath he took was just short of a gasp. “Errant bayonet. In training.” He swallowed hard, glad when she moved her hand. “Its owner peeled potatoes for a fortnight for the carelessness.”

“And this?” she asked, reaching out to run her fingers over the ribs she’d noticed the night she helped him to wash up. The muscles around it flinched.

“The, ah- the anti-tank mine,” he told her, his voice going a bit thin. “When it knocked us down.”

She frowned a bit. “They didn’t repair it at the field hospital?”

“They had other things to attend to.”

Belle looked at him, at the wry tilt of his mouth, and she understood. “They didn’t even try.”

“A field hospital is- it- it’s busy,” he excused. “They-”

“I know how field hospitals work,” she said, and she knew that one of the doctors or nurses could have done _something_ to help ribs injured so badly if they’d cared enough to. “Does it still hurt?”

Rummond shook his head. He looked down, but eventually, under her examining stare, said quietly, “Sometimes.”

“Does it hurt now?”

“No, it-” The muscles flinched again under her touch, and a reflexive smile twitched at his lips. “It tickles,” he murmured sheepishly.

She smiled and moved her hand, lifting it to cup his cheek, and kissed him again. When she sat back, she ran her fingertips over the scar from his surgery, where it disappeared beneath the waist of his trousers. “Do you still have any pain here?”

He shook his head, watching her face rather than her hands. “No.”

She ran her hand across his stomach and up his chest, pressing it flat over his heart. “You’re beautiful, Rummond,” she breathed.

He barked a laugh that she could feel, harsh and sharp, beneath her hand on his chest. She looked up at him. Rummond was surprised to find her face soft and sincere, and the doubtful smirk at the corner of his mouth disappeared. A drawn expression of confusion developed in its place. 

Belle lifted a hand, her fingertips stroking along his cheek until she could cup her hand at his jaw. She ran the pad of her thumb along his lower lip. His throat constricted and he screwed his eyes tightly shut, leaning into her palm. 

“You are,” she said, leaning so near him that he could feel her breath on his lips.

She surged forward with another kiss and he was rocked back with the intensity of it. The tip of her tongue curled behind his front teeth when he opened to her. She deepened the kiss further and he reached out, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into his lap, needing her closer.

Rummond leaned back and took her with him. She lay with her thigh resting between his, and she could feel him growing harder. She broke their kiss and shifted over to lie on her side next to him, one leg drawn up over one of his. Belle curled herself a little, resting her chin below Rummond’s chest. There were very few places on his body that she hadn’t touched, though many of those parts had been touched in a clinical sense. She hadn’t gotten to touch him more intimately during their first time, and she was hungrily curious for that.

She grazed a hand down his stomach, fingers stroking through the light scatter of ash brown hair that began below his navel and filled in more as it went. He was hard, blushed rosy-dark and full, resting heavy up against his abdomen. She ran a fingertip up the shaft and back down the vein underneath, pressing her lips together over her smile as his toes curled and he held his breath in response to her touch. Belle felt herself clench in anticipation, in want of him, the sensation of it making her need him so much the worse. 

Rummond watched her as well as he could as she touched him. He felt as if he couldn’t get enough air, though it wasn’t an unpleasant sensation the way his panics were. It was a lovely, head-spinning feeling. He was aware that he made noises, try as he might to swallow them.

She eased his foreskin carefully back, and a spark of electricity shot its way up his spine.

“Tell me if I- I don’t want to hurt you,” she said, turning her head to look at him.

He choked on a slightly hysterical laugh. “You aren’t going to hurt me, love…”

Turning back, she began a series of feather light touches to the head, and he grabbed hold of a handful of the blanket at his side. When she ran the pad of a finger over the taut little band of tissue at the underside, though, he _groaned._

He looked at her with wide eyes and he was met with a similar expression, though hers was in wonder and his was out of fear that he might be scolded for the sound. She only beamed at him.

Belle moved her attention lower again, watching a droplet of pearly fluid bead up. She stroked her thumb over it, spreading it. The more she touched him, the more excited _she_ felt, and that in itself intrigued her.

She stretched out next to him again, finding him lying with one hand clinging to the blanket and the other clamped over his eyes. “Rummond?” she asked in alarm. “Are you all right?”

“Mm!” he hummed shortly, regaining some semblance of a hold on himself now that she didn’t have her hand around him. 

She pinched her lower lip between her teeth, stifling a pleased laugh. “Here,” she said, taking his hand and pulling it away from his eyes. She leaned back and waited for him to look at her before hinting, “I still have something I need to get out of.”

Rummond sat up slowly, head reeling. He rested a careful hand on her stomach and leaned to brush a kiss over the soft skin above her navel, glancing up at her to make certain that everything he did was all right. He caught the waist of her drawers with his fingers and dragged them slowly down. 

He didn’t think that exploring her as she had him would help him calm down much - if anything, it would likely make his need that much worse - but the invitation was impossible to turn down. She wiggled her feet as he slipped the silk down them and dropped them off the other side of the bed. Looking back to her, he found the thatch of soft auburn curls he’d barely gotten to see the first time, and he ran the back of his fingers over them before cupping his hand gently against her. She made a soft, sighing noise that encouraged him further.

Belle shifted her legs apart a little more in hopes of Rummond continuing. He would, she knew, but she was impatient, and she thought she might very well die before she properly had him again, at this rate. 

He touched her then. She pinched her lip harder as his fingers dipped lower, her hips aching with the need to tilt up into him. 

She felt him graze her entrance, and she had to bite her lip to keep quiet as his long fingers curled into her. He leaned over her, and for a moment she wasn’t sure what he was doing. The back of his free hand ran up her side and along the outer curve of her breast before she understood. He brushed over her nipple with the pad of his thumb before cupping his free hand at the side of her breast, squeezing gently. It made her thoughts go deliciously out of focus.

Rummond ducked his head, kissing her areola before parting his lips, drawing her nipple as deeply into his mouth as he could. The pull of it went right to the core of her, and a broken sound escaped her before she could stop it.

Rummond let go, looking up at her with concern in his face. She caught a handful of hair at the nape of his neck to keep him from going very far. “Don’t stop!” she gasped.

He grinned and she smiled back, and he returned to what he’d been doing. After a few moments, he added a third to the gentle, teasing thrust of his fingers, gliding in her wetness from her entrance to the little bundle of nerves nestled higher, slowly circling it, and going back again.

Belle climaxed to the touch of his fingers and mouth, her body arching, pushing up against him and asking for more. She struggled to keep herself as quieted as she could. The aftershocks of it still shuddered through her when she realized the grip she still had on his hair. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” she said, letting go.

Rummond sat up a bit, and she got a good look at him. He didn’t seem in any pain. His brown eyes were near black with need, a flush blooming down his neck and chest. She committed the wrecked look of him to memory, enjoying knowing just how far down that flush went, now. 

He shook his head. “I don’t mind it,” he told her, sliding his fingers from her in an agonizingly slow movement. He gave her a grin that was still more than a little self-conscious. “I like that you tend to hold on.”

She reached as far as she could, hooking a hand around his upper arm and trying to bring him nearer, glad when he caught on. 

Rummond knelt up first, then rested himself over her, lying between her legs for the first time and feeling her thighs press against his hips as she tightened them gently against him.

“Belle?” he said. When she didn’t respond with attention, he said again, “Belle, love, you have your, ah- your-”

She nodded. “I’m ready. Everything is right.”

“If I’m too heavy on you, tell me,” he said, and her laughter was so unexpected that he that he flinched with the surprise of it, giving her a bewildered look. 

“After all I’ve done to get weight to stick to you,” Belle told him, shaking her head. She wanted to feel his weight on her, wanted to feel the solidity of him.

Rummond smiled at her indignance toward the idea of him being too heavy, and he nodded. He leaned to kiss her again, catching her top lip. She felt his tongue there, and it made her tighten her legs around his hips, _wanting_ him, but they weren’t quite lined up yet.

 _“Now?”_ she asked, “Please?”

He moved a hand between them to line himself up, and Belle made the loveliest sound as he guided the head against her entrance. And like that, he was inside her. Somehow it was better than the first time. There was no hurry, less fear. Her belly pressed against his, and it was so _warm_ here with her.

Carefully, he lowered himself against her, going down onto his forearms. He moved so that he could slide both hands behind her, one pressing flat against her back and the other palm behind her right shoulder, his fingers curling over the top. Belle reached out for him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. The way he held her close rather than leaning too far away made her feel safe. She had expected him to rest on his hands, with almost minimal contact, the way she’d been kept at a distance before. But she could almost have cried with the relief of being held. He was so close and so warm - she felt _home,_ here, with him, in a way she’d missed for such a long time.

Her fingers skimmed along the lean muscles of his back as he eased his hips away, pulling out a little and thrusting back into her again. The way he moved with her was fairly artless. It was lovely and endearing; he wasn’t attempting to preen and show off while they were together. He was simply doing what felt right, and that more than anything she’d ever heard or read or felt _aroused_ her. 

Rummond found a rhythm and kept steadily with it, hoping to hold on long enough that he could give her a second moment. He pressed kisses to her shoulder and her neck, struggling to show her what he didn’t feel he could properly express with words even when he trusted his voice. He felt her moving with him, tilting her hips to meet him, and he could tell when her movements became more frantic. 

“Rum- oh, God- Rum, sweetheart-” She nearly sobbed the endearment as she tipped over the edge. 

The feeling had her arching into him, her legs drew closer and tighter against him, her toes curling so hard it almost hurt. She whimpered her way through it as quietly as she could manage. The way she squeezed around him inside went from hard and quick to gentler and more slowly, until the waves of contractions through her inner muscles disappeared altogether. 

He wasn’t far behind. She understood the off-rhythm stutter of his hips for him getting close. His thrusts grew desperate and needy, and she wrapped her limbs more closely around him. She tightened her arms around his shoulders, and her legs squeezed at his sides, and she felt the moment that his control deserted him. 

A broken groan escaped Rummond and he thrust more sharply into her, burying his face against her neck and closing his throat to keep himself from making some obscene sound at how _wonderful_ she felt - because, God, he’d never been held to in the way she was clinging or wanted the way she whispered into his ear that she did. He nuzzled his face against her, and the scent of the rosy perfume he’d smelled on her all day and the exerted heat of her skin broke him. When her body clenched around him, her arms and legs tightening still more until he could barely move against her, it seemed as if she wrung the orgasm from him. It rushed through him, pulses of pleasure through his abdomen and the small of his back and his thighs, waves of it pouring out along his nerves. 

Belle felt him go tense as he finished, burying himself so deeply as he did that it ached a little. She felt tears squeeze from the corners of her eyes - her heart felt as if it could burst, and she held onto him, reveling in the feeling of his weight on top of her, the feeling of him moving in and out of her, the feeling of him finishing. She wasn’t ready to let him go. She wanted to hold him like this, around him and within her for so much longer, to cling to the comfort of it for both of them.

Rummond brushed his lips over the soft skin of her shoulder. He should move off her, he knew, but the idea of leaving the safety of the circle of her limbs didn’t bear thinking of.

After another moment or two, he slid his arms from beneath her and raised up enough that he could look at her. He found tears in her eyes, and his heart lurched.

He hadn’t paid close enough attention. He’d done something.

Belle reached up, sitting up with him as he pulled away, curling one hand around the back of his neck and laying the other on his shoulder, afraid he might take flight if she didn’t anchor him. “What is it? Talk to me?”

“I hurt you.” He shook his head quickly, his hands hovering over her legs as though he wanted to touch her and was afraid to.

“What?” Belle blinked. “No. No! You didn’t hurt me. What are you talking about?”

“You’re _crying!_ ” he breathed, horrified, and she saw tears beginning to shine in his own eyes. “What did I do?”

“Oh, Rum, sweetheart… They’re good tears,” she explained, pulling herself nearer to him again. “Happy tears. I promise.”

His brows began to unknit, but she could tell that he still had doubts. “Happy tears?”

 _“So_ happy,” she whispered to him, leaning closer. She drew him in with her hands, to meet her.

Belle kissed him. Soft kisses, plucking gently at his lips with her own. It took him a few of them to close his eyes, but the fearful tension in him dissolved as his worry eased. He let his hands rest on her thighs first, then moved them to slide around her waist, encircling her. She guided him back down and together they worked the terribly disheveled bedclothes out from under them so that they could cover up.

Rummond lay on his back with Belle lying half on top of him, her leg curled to stretch across his hips. Her arm rested across his chest to reach his hair, fingers stroking through the ends of it. His hand ran slowly up and down the length of her back, taking in her warmth and the feeling of her body against him, and he _knew_ that he would never see anything nearer Heaven than this.


	94. While Shepherds Watched

Every once in a while, Belle lifted her head from his shoulder to look at him, perfectly aware that she did it to check and make certain nothing else fed some lingering fear without her knowing. He seemed peaceful, content as his hand ran up and down her back, and she couldn’t deny the satisfaction that she’d had a part in bringing that to him. For the time being, at least.

It wasn’t until the third or perhaps fourth time she looked up that she noticed an odd expression on his face. “What’s the matter?” she asked softly.

Rummond raised his eyebrows, tilting his head down a little so that he could see her. “Wrong? Nothing.” He shook his head.

She reached up, touching the crease that re-formed between his brows. It softened and disappeared when he looked to her again. 

“Something,” Belle said.

He caught her hand, kissing it and holding it over his heart. “No, nothing _wrong,_ love. It’s-” It took him a few moments of puzzling it out for himself before he could attempt to explain it to her. The feeling had been the same after the first time they’d been together, and he hadn’t been able to put a finger on it.

“It’s never been like that. This way. With you,” he said before admitting in a hushed voice, “I don’t feel badly after, with you.”

She schooled away a frown, not wanting to discourage him from talking it through, whatever this was. “You felt badly before?”

He nodded just enough that she could tell. “I thought it must be a part of it. Guilt and iniquity and all that. What you hear from the…” He lifted his hand, spinning a finger up toward the ceiling before he looked to her, searching her face. “But it isn’t.”

“No, it isn’t.” Belle shook her head, smiling. “Or it isn’t meant to be.”

An answering smile began to spread across his face. He bumped his nose gently against hers, hoping for a kiss that she immediately gave. “I love you.”

Her smile brightened, blinding and happy. “I love you.”

Rummond returned his hand to hers, looking down at them where their fingers laced together. “I’m not accustomed to this,” he said quietly after a while.

“To what?”

He snugged her more closely against him, tightening his arm around her back and his hand over hers, willing her to understand so that he wouldn’t have to explain. _“This.”_

“Making love?” Belle ventured after a bit of a hesitation. 

He murmured softly, not quite meeting her eyes. “Being loved.”

Shifting until she lay with her chest pressed to his, she looked right down at him. She held his face, her palms cradling the angle of his jaw at either side and giving him no choice beyond looking at her in return.

“I love you,” she told him again.

It was one thing that she would never fail to make sure that he believed of her. She would blot out everything she possibly could of the years through which he was alone and unloved, the decades that he felt abandoned and unwanted. 

His heart thumped harder against her, and she felt the beat of it. It took her breath a little, that something so simple as telling Rummond that she loved him affected him so much. She leaned down, giving him a firm kiss, sweet and intense enough that it still left them both breathless in the end. 

Belle slid her hands so that one curled at the back of his neck and the other lay flat against his chest, enjoying the way his heart quickened further when she ducked her head to place a kiss between his collarbones. His arm around her tightened again, and his free hand settled at her hip, squeezing the soft curve. She was creating a string of kisses up the sensitive part of his throat when she found the practice mark under his jawline.

She’d seen them on violinists and violists before. Rummond’s was a small scar, created over years of playing and faded from time not doing so. The little he’d spent playing with her in the sitting room had irritated it a bit, bruising and reddening the skin. She moved her hand up from his chest to touch it with her fingers, pressing a kiss to it. With a grin, she decided to leave a mark of her own over it. After all, it was an excellent excuse.

She gave the mark an experimental lick, wetting the skin before she sealed her lips over it. His reaction was immediate.

Rummond tensed beneath her, his fingertips biting pleasantly into her hip. He gave a sharp gasp before groaning as she sucked at the tender skin beneath his jaw. “Oh, now, how is that fair?” he managed.

She broke the seal between her lips and his skin with a soft sound. “What does fair have to do with me kissing you?” she asked, and he felt her words vibrate across his skin.

“I can’t leave marks on you, and here you are raising a wheal on me.”

Belle leaned up on his chest, giving him a daring little smirk. “I never said you couldn’t leave a love bite on me.”

The surprise in his silence emboldened her and she returned to her work. When she was satisfied that she’d left her own mark on him, disguised as it may have been, she rested against him again to admire and run her fingertips over it. He hummed with such contentment, she wished that they could have stayed for days just where they were.

She left the mark alone, laying her hand on his chest. “Where did you learn to play violin?”

“While I was in the Navy. Bought mine third time I was paid. I realized I had little enough to do while we were in port.” His arm around her relaxed, and he began to stroke her back again with gentle gathering motions of his hand. “Taught myself. Never could work out how to properly read music, but I can play by ear just fine.”

“What I heard was far more than ‘just fine,’” Belle praised. “I thought that might be why you asked me to play the song through before you joined in.”

She had more curiosity regarding his playing, but thoughts of what his response might be made her hesitate. When he offered no more, though, she asked, “Why did you stop?”

It took him a few moments to sort out an answer for her. “I’m not certain _why,”_ he replied slowly. “I enjoyed playing. I… simply stopped picking it up.”

“Would you happen to have stopped after...?” She hoped that he understood without either of them having to leave words about it on the air. 

He nodded, saying nothing more of it, and she let it go at that. Belle thought she understood. She had listened to Dr. Hopper enough to know it was something that occurred in some patients under certain conditions, pushing away things that one enjoyed or appreciated for no reason other than they _had_ positive connections with them. She wondered if perhaps playing tonight had stoked his interest in it again.

Belle basked in the warmth beneath the covers and in being able to touch so much of Rummond with so much of herself until she began growing drowsy.

“I should head back to my room,” she said, sighing through her reluctance to do so.

“Do you have to go?” he asked, his tongue ahead of his sense. He closed his eyes for a moment, shaking his head. “No, I- I know you have to. I mean- so soon?”

She brushed a kiss onto his skin, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder before resting there again. “I’ll stay a bit longer.”

At the feeling of her kiss, he drew an easier breath than he had taken in quite a long time. He squeezed her to him, hoping to hold her for as long as possible.

Belle thought he clung to her as though he were afraid she might disappear. As though he might never be allowed this again. She wrapped an arm around his ribs, holding onto him just as tightly.

She heard the sound of him opening his mouth, taking a breath through it in preparation to speak, but he said nothing. It happened a second time. She waited.

“Did you mean what you said?” he finally asked, uncertainty heavy in his voice.

She raised her head from his shoulder. Shy as he suddenly looked, she imagined he would be fidgeting, did he not have arms full of her. “What did I say?”

“That-” He turned his own head so that he could see her, searching her face. “That your life is better? With me in it?”

Belle smiled. “Yes,” she said firmly, leaning to kiss him and meeting his eyes again when she pulled back. “I meant it. With all my heart.”

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

They were on their sides, both of them, and she wasn’t certain at which point they’d shifted over. The covers were pulled nearly over her head. She was still wrapped around him, one of her legs thrown over his hip as though he might have gotten away without her body to anchor his.

Rummond had fallen asleep. He was so quiet and so peaceful, she was loath to wake him.

She could see the slight scruff on his face in the lamp light, and the feeling of it was as delicious as she’d imagined when she nuzzled her nose and lips against his cheek. He nuzzled instinctively back into her in return. 

Belle twisted a little, turning to look at the table clock behind her, to see how much longer she could stretch her time to stay with him before she absolutely had to return to her own room for a few hours’ sleep. There was no need for the clock when she turned, though. Daylight seeped around the edges of the curtains.

 _She’d_ fallen asleep.

“Oh… Oh, no,” she breathed, extricating her limbs from his. She threw back the covers and climbed out of bed over him, her head light from getting up so quickly even as she gathered her nightclothes. She had to wash up and get dressed, and there were still a few things she needed to see to in the sitting room before Rummond and Neal went downstairs.

Rummond sat up. He blinked in confusion at her and asked in a still half-sleeping slur, “I thought y’meant to stay for a while?”

“Rum, it’s morning! I’ve stayed all night!”

“Morning?” he repeated dully. “All night?”

She dropped to her knees, peering beneath the bed and grumbling in frustration over something before standing again. Hurrying back around to the side of the bed where he sat, she grabbed her nightdress and turned it the right way around, pulling it over her head. Her hair was still caught in it when she began sorting out her dressing gown.

Gradually able to put two thoughts together, Rummond had an idea what she’d been looking for. He thought back through the previous night and stretched across the bed, rolling onto his stomach. He slipped a hand between the bed and table on the opposite side, and when he sat up again, he had the bit of blue silk in hand.

“Belle?” he said, turning a bit pink over finding her drawers when she couldn’t. He held them out to her.

She flushed a little, as well, pressing her lips together before exchanging a grin with him for her underthings. 

He went to the door with her, short a way as it was. She curled a hand around the back of his neck and rose onto her tiptoes to kiss him. A lingering kiss and a series of quicker ones later, she opened the door, peering cautiously out. The upstairs was silent, the hallway still dark. Turning, she stole one more kiss from Rummond on the threshold of his room before she scurried across to her own.

She didn’t have time to take quite as much care with her hair as she’d planned, but with a bit of hurry, everything came together not _too_ much later than she had intended to be downstairs. She left her bedroom carrying her shoes so that she could hurry quietly down. Mrs. Potts found her while she was sitting near the bottom of the staircase - on the step where she’d left Rummond the night before - to put them on.

Whether the cook suspected anything, she wasn’t certain. Her cluck of, “Overslept, did you? Why, I remember when you had your father up before the sun to open presents and attack the sweets,” seemed to indicate not, but one never knew with Mrs. Potts. 

She’d waited for Belle to close the little golden buckles on her shoes and move before continuing up to wake Neal. It wouldn’t be long at all before they were all downstairs.

Belle fussed with arranging things in the sitting room. Mrs. Potts had the Christmas goodies set out, and the big, store bought stocking that had come already filled had been hung at the corner of the mantle opposite the one Belle had filled for Neal, herself. She nudged presents into place so that they looked nicer beneath the tree, turning a couple of ornaments that had spun the wrong way around to show their prettier sides.

She went over to the round table next to her father’s armchair to fetch the long matches from the drawer. The candles needed to be lit before Rummond and Neal came down 

Belle smiled to herself, entertaining thoughts of the night before. She’d never slept in a bed with anyone in just that way, and she found that it was very much to her liking. Going to sleep loved, waking loved. She could still feel Rummond’s arms around her, could still smell him, if she closed her eyes. It took even less concentration to recall his fingers, his mouth… Her cheeks burned, and she was glad to have the excuse of having been too near the hearth to put it off to.

She unearthed the matches from beneath a stack of letters that had been crammed in on top of them. An envelope came out with them, caught in the edge of the box, and she bent to pick it up. She recognized the address before reaching it and snatched it from the floor, pinning the matches under her arm so that she could look inside.

It was from the owner of the flower market - a note dashed off in response to a letter from her father, to confirm the wedding’s change of date from January to May. Her mouth dropped open in outrage.

She heard his heavy footsteps behind her, and she turned to find him appearing entirely too cheerful for her to bite back on what she’d discovered. Holding the letter out to him, she asked, “What is this?”

Her father’s smile faded, and she could see him working to come up with an explanation contrary to what the paper clearly said.

“It’s- you know, flowers- we keep flowers around the-” Maurice looked from the letter to his daughter’s face, and he sighed. “I wrote the flower market to let them know of the change in your wedding plans.”

“‘Change’? You mean cancellation, don’t you, Papa?” she prompted. “The wedding has been _cancelled,_ hasn’t it?”

He hemmed and hawed a bit more. “Well, when you say ‘cancelled’...”

“When I say cancelled, I do mean cancelled.” She took the letter back, finding the point where its author mentioned the month of May, and shook the paper at him with her finger underlining the word. _“This_ does not look cancelled.”

“I merely thought perhaps the flowers might come of use after all,” her father said, taking the letter and looking it over as though he didn’t know precisely what it said.

“Have you cancelled anything?” she asked. She could feel her voice rising in pitch, and as much as she hated it, she couldn’t send it back down. “Any of the plans? The venue? Have you informed the _guests_ that the wedding is off?”

He hadn’t, she surmised by the way his mouth twisted up and he refused to meet her eyes. He had simply taken it upon himself to change the date.

“Oh, God.” Belle let her hand drop to her side. “Papa! Why not?”

“Belle, my girl,” her father said, and the placation that she heard in his words set her teeth on edge. “You and Donat, you’ve been dancing around one another for more than a year, now. You understand how I must assume what’s happened between you is a quarrel. You’ll patch it up!”

“No, Papa,” she told him with a shake of her head. _“He’s_ been dancing. Dancing and misleading and manipulating. I’ve been… trying to toss my dance card in the bin.”

Her father gave her a smile that irritated her further. It was the smile that he put on when he was humoring her. “You children will sort this out before the date arrives, and then you’ll be thankful I’ve only altered the arrangements as they are.” He gave the letter back to her, patting her hand between his before he turned to walk away.

“No, I will not. Papa! For Heaven’s sake, he is engaged again!” she called after him, but he was on his way to his study. She knew he wouldn’t come back until company had joined her and he would be safe from further argument.

“Precisely _what_ about me not so much as wanting him in the house gives you the idea we’d ‘sort this out’?” she snipped into the empty sitting room, fuming as she crammed the letter back into the side table drawer and slammed it shut.

She went back to the tree, pulling a match from the box. Before striking it, she fiddled with the placement of the candles in their holders, making certain that none would be a danger, and kept her ears pricked so that she could hear Rummond and Neal on their way downstairs. She refused to allow either her father’s obliviousness or _anything_ regarding her buffoon of an ex-fiancé to put a dent into her Christmas. 

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

It was the first time Rummond had gotten a full night’s sleep in longer than he preferred think about. He was still tired, but it was a _good_ tired. A tired that came with pleasantly sore muscles and a heart that didn’t ache from loneliness.

He stopped to take a few things from the chaise and his overnight bag before crossing to the privy to wash up. Standing in front of the sink, waiting for the water to turn warm, he thought of her. How soft she was. How lovely she felt against him. Surrounding him. The kisses and touches she’d given him even afterward, right up until the moment she’d had to go back to her own bedroom. 

Belle loved him. Belle wanted him. He could barely wrap his mind around that. Her certainly couldn’t understand it, but… perhaps he didn’t have to.

He ran a hand down his face, covering his mouth as his thoughts spun over their night together, and he realized her scent was still on his fingers. That brought heat into his face, and he smiled and ducked his head. He inhaled her again before washing his hands, taking a cloth down from the cupboard so that he could wash and shave.

He’d just gotten his underthings on and buttoned his trousers, braces hanging loose at his sides, when he heard a knock at the door. With Belle flooding his thoughts, he expected her to stand on the other side when he opened it. He had to adjust his line of sight a couple of feet down, though, and found his son beaming up at him.

Still in his pajamas, hair wild and sleep in his eyes, Neal bounced excitedly on the balls of his feet. “G’morning-Papa-Happy-Christmas!”

Rummond leaned down to scoop the boy up. “Good morning and Happy Christmas to you, too,” he said, pressing such a sound kiss to his son’s cheek that he received a squealing giggle in return. 

He took Neal into the privy and sat him on the edge of the counter, wetting a cloth with warm water to wash his son’s face. Little expression still scrunched up in protest of the morning washing, Rummond set Neal on his feet again.

“Not quite dressed to go downstairs, but give me a few minutes. All right?”

“Okay!” Neal chirped. Too eager to perch anywhere, he followed his father’s every step in getting dressed. 

Rummond had to fish his shoes from beneath the bed. He found Belle’s blue bedroom slippers there with them and scooted the little satin shoes over next to the bedpost, out of sight. He was glad he’d brought along another pair of socks; one of the pair he’d arrived in seemed to have gone missing.

He sat down on the side of the bed to button his shirt and Neal sat next to him. When he stood to tuck the tails neatly in, Neal stood up beside him. Rummond looked down and grinned. He folded his cuffs back and realized he was missing something else.

“Cufflinks, cufflinks…” he murmured to himself, checking over the bedside table before looking at his overnight bag.

“Pocket,” Neal said helpfully before his father could search the bag, pointing at the waistcoat that had been laid out on the bed.

“So observant you are!” Rummond said, resting a hand atop his son’s head for a second before he sat again, reaching back for his waistcoat. “Thank you very much, duckling.”

Neal leaned on his Papa’s leg, unable to hold in his wiggling. “Hurry?” he whispered as his Papa worked the cufflinks through.

There was another knock at the door, this time paired with an announcement of, “Captain Gold?”

“Come in,” he called to Mrs. Potts.

“Ah-ha. I had a feeling you’d a little visitor,” she said as she opened the door, seeing Neal. She extended a hand toward the boy. “Come on, we need to get you dressed.”

Neal hummed reluctantly. He crawled onto the bed, pressing himself against his Papa’s side.

“The sooner you’re dressed, the sooner the two of you can go downstairs to see what Father Christmas has brought,” Mrs. Potts told him. 

Rummond took his son’s head between his hands and dropped a kiss into the top of the little boy’s hair. “Go on, it’s all right. I’ll wait for you. I’m not ready, myself, just yet.”

Neal held out for a moment longer, but he slid down from the bed. “Don’t open presents until I can see!” he said, taking Mrs. Potts’ hand.

“I wouldn’t dare,” Rummond promised. “I wouldn’t so much as go downstairs without you.”

Neal hopped a step in front of Mrs. Potts as they left the room, and Rummond could hear him begin to chatter before the door was closed.

He took his waistcoat, swinging it around to slip his arms through. As he buttoned it, he found a smile on his face and butterflies in his belly. He couldn’t remember ever looking so forward to a Christmas morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There'll be one more Christmas chapter next week.
> 
> Also, no, we won't be seeing Gaston again. I promise. Mention of all that mess here is simply the beginning of tying up Maurice's part in that relationship. ;)


	95. Amid the Winter's Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts - _anonymous asked: Ohhhh pleaaaase let Neal find the now darker mark on his Papa's jaw. Innocently asking if it's a boo-boo (what do English children call them?) so that Papa goes red in front of everyone._
> 
> _rowofstars said: I sort of wanted to prompt something (can be Christmas-y or not) with Neal playing in the snow and Belle playing a bit too and Rum feels left out because he has a bum leg now but instead of getting all angsty about it, he starts throwing snowballs from his chair. And maybe later on some chilly Belle needed to warm up. ;)_
> 
> _adventure1937 prompted: I would love to read a wee bit of Rummond, Belle and Neal - perhaps the three having fallen asleep together on the sofa/beside the fireplace._

The sitting room had been festive the day before, but late additions had transformed it into something that could just as well come out of a storybook. The small, brass candle holders on the tree’s branches had been filled and the candles lit, as had a line of them across the mantle. Plates of cookies and candies occupied the coffee table, a pot of hot cocoa sitting at the center of the arrangement. There were stockings - quite obviously meant for Neal - hanging, and a few presents that hadn’t been there the night before joined the rest under the tree. With only a little help from the drapes thrown open on an early morning sun, the room glowed warm and golden.

And there stood Belle, looking not a bit as though she’d less than half an hour before been at sixes and sevens over sleeping the night through in a bed with him. She turned as he and Neal stepped into the room, shaking out a match and tossing the spent sliver of wood into the fire.

He looked down to Neal, to see what reaction the decorations brought, and found the boy had fallen behind. His son stood still in the doorway, eyes wide and trying to take everything in at once. 

“It’s so pretty…” Neal said, and his jaw-dropping awe transformed into an ecstatic smile.

Belle watched him walk slowly past them, looking up at the tree. She turned to Rummond, exchanging ‘good morning’s and ‘Happy Christmas’es with him, along with a look that warmed the room even further. Neal echoed with a distracted, “Happy Christmas!” from behind her.

She laughed softly, moving closer to Rummond and running a hand down the section of his tie between his collar and waistcoat. “I like this,” she said of the red and gold, smiling. “It suits you. The color.”

He ducked his head to see her fingertip tracing a swirl of gold. He could almost pretend that the sitting room belonged to both of them, that it was their own family Christmas. One of the maids came in, burdened with a plate of thimble cookies and a pot of tea, and the spell was rather broken. Belle took a step back, though her expression didn’t change.

When the maid had finished arranging the last of the morning’s sweets and left the room again, Rummond leaned nearer Belle long enough to whisper, “You left your bedroom slippers.”

Her eyes flashed wide for a moment before she composed her expression. “Where?”

“Underneath the bed,” he said quietly. “I moved them to sit against the back right bedpost. A bit out of sight, but…”

She nodded, giving his chest a pat and brushed past him. “Excuse me. I’ll just-” 

He looked over his shoulder to watch her go, smiling at the way her hips moved and her skirts swished a bit as she hurried out.

Steadying himself with his cane, he leaned down to pick up Neal, his son still gazing up at the tree. A small arm secured itself around his neck.

“We made the garlands,” he said, reaching to tap a cranberry and making the loose draping of it swing. “Me and Belle. And we made some more ornaments. I didn’t make as many as Belle because she was faster, but she said mine are just as pretty.” He looked at his Papa with a proud smile.

“They are, indeed. They’re all beautiful,” Rummond assured him.

His eyes drifted from the ornaments on the tree to the presents beneath it. The new ones had all been wrapped in identical paper and decorated with identical ribbons. They were marked as being from Father Christmas, the only difference between them being the recipients’ names delicately calligraphed in red ink on the tags. 

There was a short warning of heavy footsteps before Maurice boomed, “Happy Christmas!” upon entering the room.

The muscles across Rummond’s shoulders tightened painfully despite having heard Belle’s father approaching. He’d managed not to flinch, at least. He turned away from the tree, giving his host a smile that he hoped wasn’t too tense. “Happy Christmas,” he replied.

“Where did Belle go off to, now?”

“She had to run upstairs,” Rummond said. “I think she’ll only be a moment.”

Maurice chuckled. “Some feminine thing she missed, I’m sure.”

The remark chafed at Rummond in some way that he couldn’t quite identify and certainly couldn’t call the other man on. He pointed out one of the paper ornaments to take both Neal and himself out of the focus of Maurice’s amusement. 

“Which is your favorite?” he asked his son. “Of those you made.”

“This one!” Neal said after just a second of consideration, reaching out to cup the bottom of a cut piece of red paper that was stretched to look something like a lantern, making the layers of it bounce. “Belle taught me how to do that. Square ones and circle ones.”

Rummond heard the gentler click of Belle’s shoes on the stairs, and something settled in him as she returned to the sitting room.

“Ah, there she is!” Maurice declared, clapping a hand at the back of Rummond’s arm.

He turned to look, raising his eyebrows in question. Belle circled her forefinger and thumb in an ‘all’s well’ sign as her father moved past her to take up his armchair, and Rummond breathed a sigh of relief.

“Now,” she said, taking a piece of shortbread before she gestured for him to take his place from the evening before on the settee. “We’ve a tradition of opening the biggest presents at the end, so they’ve been set aside to turn up last.”

Setting Neal on his feet, Rummond took the spot nearer the tree and hearth as he’d been directed. He resisted the teasing reply of, ‘yes, ma’am,’ he’d have given if they hadn’t been in the presence of her father. His son sat beside him, squirming until he was against the back cushion.

Poking the shortbread into her mouth, Belle leaned to pour a cup of tea. Mrs. Potts stepped into the room just as she was pecking a lump of sugar with the spoon to break it, to put a bit into Rummond’s cup. She placed the smaller half in and gave it a stir.

When Belle handed the cup to him, he realized she hadn’t at all forgotten that he took his tea black and barely sweet, and he gave her an amused look. All the cream and honey he’d drank in tea over these last months. Fattening him up, indeed. 

He gave her a soft, “Thank you,” and placed his cup on the side table next to him.

“All is as it should be?” Mrs. Potts asked, hands linked over her aproned midriff.

“Everything is just perfect,” Belle confirmed. Her back to the rest of the room, she gave Rummond a sly little wink and turned to the coffee table again. She prepared another cup of tea tan with cream and a full lump, handing it to Mrs. Potts. “Stay with us?”

“Oh… well… If you insist,” the cook said with a smile that spoke of the invitation not being unusual in the least. She went and parked herself on the edge of an armchair that sat a bit aside, near enough to look on over the Christmas morning proceedings. “Josephine can see to the kitchen for a bit, nothing too dire should be happening for a while yet.”

Belle poured a small cup of hot cocoa for Neal and handed it to Rummond, as well, then saw to her father’s coffee, and then her own tea at last. Placing it near the edge of the table, she sat and made herself comfortable, tucking a leg beneath her in spite of Mrs. Potts’ pointed look as she did so.

“Neal, darling,” she began, turning her attention to him. “Would you like to deliver presents for us? We need someone to hand them out, and I believe you’re just the young man to handle it.”

Neal bounced on the cushion and slouched a bit so that he could let himself slide to the floor. The frontmost stack of presents had been arranged so that one of Neal’s sat on top. She had seen to it. He took the large, slender package as she’d hoped he would, and he examined the tag.

He recognized the shape of the letters right away. “It has my name on it. From you?” he asked, seeming a bit troubled.

“Well then, go ahead and open it,” Belle encouraged him. “Someone has to open the first present. It may as well be you.”

He took a step closer to his Papa, making himself safe by leaning against his father’s knee, and shyly began stripping the ribbon and white paper away to reveal a thick drawing pad and a box of drawing pencils. His mouth hanging open, he turned the slim box over, looking at them.

“My, look at that,” Rummond said, resting a hand at his son’s back. “Just imagine how many drawings you can make with those, hm?”

Neal looked from his Papa to Belle, and his pensive little face brightened into a smile of his own. “I can!” he agreed. 

He stepped around one of his Papa’s feet and then the other, placed the pad and pencils on the cushion that had been his own sitting spot, and continued over to beckon Belle forward. Neal wrapped his arms about her neck when she did, giving her a hug that left her throat feeling a bit froggier than she’d admit. 

“Why don’t you go and deliver another?” she said, lifting a hand to pet the back of his hair before he went to do as she suggested.

Neal chose a smaller one on his second trip to the Christmas tree - another that sat at the top of a stack, resting on a larger box. “Ruh- Rum- mond… Papa!” he deciphered. He hopped the step over, holding the rectangular present out to him and waiting so that he could watch closely as his father opened it.

Rummond looked at the tag. Sure enough, it had his name on it. And it labeled Belle’s father as its giver, at that. He unwrapped it carefully, tugging the ribbon loose and unfolding the ends of the paper before pulling it away to reveal a silvery metal box with holly and berries stamped into the lid. He pried the lid off and inside discovered a fountain pen set - the holder and three nibs, a bottle of good ink, and a blotter.

He looked to Belle and found her smiling at him, then looked to her father. “Y- you needn’t-” he began, feeling suddenly anxious and stared-at. “You d- didn’t have to-”

“Nonsense.” Maurice waved him off. “I wouldn’t have a guest over Christmas without providing some manner of gift.”

“Thank you,” Rummond said, unsure he’d ever felt quite so awkward. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had a pen as nice.”

He hadn’t accounted for the way it might feel to open presents in front of virtual strangers as well as Belle. He wasn’t certain whether there was any preparation to be made for that sort of feeling, though. 

Neal fetched another package from beneath the tree, this one just a bit larger than the last and heavy. He recognized it as one of the packages that Mrs. Potts had helped him to wrap. His smile turning shy, he held it out to Belle. 

“From you!” she said with a smile, accepting it. She found an edge and tore the paper free. The crisp red and black cover of _The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel_ revealed itself all at once.

“Mrs. Potts said you already have the first one.” Neal twisted his fingers together behind him as he watched her face for some sign of approval. “This one is brand new!”

Belle lay the book on her lap and reached out to him with open hands. He stepped into them so that she could pull him in for another hug. “Thank you, darling. It’s just the thing to add to my collection.”

Once Belle let him go, Neal delivered the small box holding the watch chain that Rummond had put together for Belle’s father. Having no access to proper packaging at the hospital, much less ribbon or string, he’d had to rely upon Dove to find appropriate boxes and wrappings for everything. He wasn’t in the least surprised with the exemplary job.

The watch chain received an appreciative look and an initial ‘thank you’ from Maurice, and Belle rose to go and fuss over it a bit, herself.

“Rummond made that,” she said. “He chose all of the parts, put them together - added the more decorative links in, and all.”

“Did he, now?” Maurice responded, and he gave the chain a more impressed examination.

“It would go just perfectly with your new Waltham,” Belle urged, turning to return to her seat. “The engraving on the sovereign case there is similar enough.”

“It would, at that,” her father agreed. He looked up at their guest with a ready smile and a nod, then. “I’ve been in need of a proper chain to flatter it.”

Rummond returned the smile, glad that Belle’s father liked the present at least a bit. He’d entertained too many scenarios involving it being turned away or downright ridiculed. 

Neal attempted to set aside the next present he chose, and his father stopped him. “What’s that one?” Rummond asked. “Why not go ahead with it?”

The boy picked it up again, weighing the cube-shaped box in his hands. “It’s another one with my name,” he said softly.

“That’s all right!” Belle told him. “Everyone has more than one. Go on and open it.”

Rummond hadn’t had much in his bank account, but he’d had enough for the few things he’d bought. He didn’t have the money to pay the hospital for a longer stay, but he damn well had plenty to give his son and Belle _something_ for Christmas. The little box that his son worked at opening was a thing that had arrived with the mail order he’d gotten just the day before Christmas Eve. 

“Thank you, Papa,” Neal said, looking happily at the odd toy.

“Do you know what it is?” Rummond asked gently, and Neal shook his head. He caught Neal’s jacket sleeve, bringing him over to stand between his knees. “It’s a gyroscope. You set it spinning, and it’ll go on and on for a very long time before it stops on its own. Here.”

He showed his son how to wrap the string and give it a smooth pull. Neal immediately set about trying to make it spin on the wooden floor in front of the fireplace. He succeeded on his third try, watching it in wonder for a few moments before he stopped it and set it aside with the drawing pad and pencils to go back to the job that Belle had given him. 

The next gift turned out to be from Father Christmas, and another for Neal. He looked to his Papa and then to Belle with wide eyes, pointing to the tag.

“I did tell you that he has his ways,” Belle said with a carefully earnest look. 

It was shaped somewhat like the one he’d already given her. He tore the red wrappings from it and looked down at the book as his father took the paper, concentrating on the brown fabric cover with three children and its title picked out in gilding.

Belle leaned toward Rummond to whisper, “Neal may have a few more than anyone else. Don’t draw attention to it.”

Rummond’s lips twitched in amusement. “I believe he’s figuring that out for himself.”

If she had gone a bit over the top, he couldn’t pretend to be surprised. It did seem to have become her habit, going overboard with things for Neal. However backward Rummond felt when she did things for him, he adored that she doted so upon his son. 

_“The… Rail- Railway Ch- Child… Children!”_ Neal sounded out slowly. He beamed triumphantly up at Belle, proud to have read the title on his own. “It’s a big book.”

“That simply means we’ll get to read it together,” Belle told him. “It’s a good thing we’re nearly finished with the one we’ve been reading.”

Neal nodded. He set the book down and went back to the tree, looking around a bit until he found a long, thin present with a ribbon tied around the top. He knew which one that was, and he took it, dragging the bottom end as he went to give it to its intended new owner.

When he lifted it higher to give it over, he tilted his head, looking at his Papa. “You have an ouch,” he said, letting the end thump on the carpet again as he reached for the practice mark beneath his father’s jaw.

It only took Rummond a second to understand what Neal meant, and when he did, his ears and the back of his neck flushed all at once. He could feel the heat creeping into his cheeks as he caught his son’s hand before the mark could be poked at.

“From the fiddle,” he explained, hoping that he didn’t look as ridiculously red in the face as he felt. “Last night. It’s where the chin rest presses, duckling.”

“It doesn’t hurt?” Neal asked, concern on his face.

From the corner of his eye, Rummond could see how intently Belle was studying the cover of her new book. “Not at all. It’s only a bit of a bruise.”

“Okay,” his son said at last. “Okay, open it!”

He pulled the ribbon away and set it aside before unfolding the paper where it had been folded over and around the top. Neal looked as though he itched to help remove the paper far faster than his father was doing.

“You got this for me?” his Papa asked. “All by yourself?”

Rummond turned the cane in his hands. The shaft seemed to be ebony, and the brass handle was fritz style and filigreed. It looked a bit rich, but it would fit his hand far more comfortably than the crook handle of the one he’d inherited from a previous hospital resident.

“All by myself,” Neal told him with a firm nod. “I picked it out, and I took it to the counter, and I paid for it.”

He set the cane aside, propping it next to the older one against the side table, and wrapped his son up in a hug. “I am so proud of you. Do you know that?”

Neal leaned his head on his Papa’s shoulder, something in him feeling warmer and bigger and somehow lighter than it had before. He felt almost like he could float. “You like it?”

“Oh, I love it. It’s just right.” He gave Neal an extra squeeze before letting him go. “And my son gave it to me. That makes it perfect.”

Happy that his Papa liked the present he’d chosen so well, Neal went back to work on his deliveries.

Next opened were a box of chocolates for Neal from Father Christmas - Mrs. Potts, this time - and a book entitled _Night and Day_ for Belle, with Mrs. Potts claiming her position as its giver on the tag. Father Christmas - now Belle - brought Maurice a matching gold tie tack and cufflinks, each engraved with a neatly-serifed M. 

Belle was particularly pleased when the presents she’d given to Mrs. Potts to be marked as Father Christmas’ turned up. She had meant to keep the secret from everyone they went to, but it was difficult to restrain herself from her excitement. Neal, at least, didn’t seem to have caught on to her suspicious interest in certain presents.

Neal opened a package of two books wrapped together. She had to help him a little with the last words in _Anne of Green Gables_ and _Anne of Avonlea,_ as he was yet unfamiliar with them. She’d read the first when she was small, until the binding had come apart and she had to set it aside as a keepsake in favor of a new reading copy. They were about love and family coming from places that weren’t related by blood, and she wanted to help to impress that upon him. There were another pair in the series, but she’d decided that those could perhaps wait a few years.

When Rummond opened the journal that Father Christmas had gotten for him, she couldn’t help making suggestions. “It can be used for whatever you like,” she said as he flipped through it. “A planner, a place to put ideas, drawing, journaling.” 

It had occurred to her when she picked it up in the stationery store that it might be good for him to have a place to put his thoughts. She didn’t know whether he would even be amenable to putting such things down on paper, but it could be used for any number of things.

“Mm, Father Christmas had a good idea, there,” Rummond said, grinning over at her. He ran a hand down the center of the blank pages, crisp white and lined, before closing its soft leather cover and winding the connected strap around to secure it. He wasn’t terribly certain about the journaling aspect, but he would certainly use it for something.

Neal lolloped back and forth between people and the tree. Belle’s father gave her a first edition set of _The Last Man_ in three volumes. To Neal’s sheepish delight, Mrs. Potts had found a tin of twenty-eight crayons - more colors than he’d ever had available to his hands. He hovered nearby as Belle’s father opened the box holding a glass horse figurine, bought with a little of the money left over from buying his Papa’s cane and given as a replacement for the knick-knack he hadn’t forgotten breaking. And to Mrs. Potts’ fluster, she received a pretty, lacquer flower brooch from Belle.

When Neal picked up the smallest of the presents that Rummond gave, he motioned his son over. Neal stood close, excited and curious as he unwrapped and pulled the top from the box. Inside sat a fan-shaped gold pocketwatch on a chain, just the size for a child. 

Rummond had found the watch in the box of odds and ends that Dr. Hopper gave him, silent and scuffed up, and he’d repaired it easily. It had only been in need of a thorough cleaning and a new winding click. After a good shine, it was as good as new. The chain was a simple buttonhole chain, and not overly pretty, but it was strong and what a boy needed for his first watch. It was only big enough to fit into a small waistcoat pocket. Neal was ecstatic over it, and had his Papa help him to attach it to him right away.

From Father Christmas - again Mrs. Potts - Belle received a box of her favorite chocolates. Yet another book from Belle had Neal’s name on the tag. _The Jungle Book,_ with elephants on its bright blue cover, was placed at the top of the stack he made, its color and promised content making it his thus far favorite. Rummond opened up a book of his own from his son; _The Tin Soldier,_ which Neal had set his heart on for his father upon seeing in the bookstore. Maurice proceeded to cause the first tears of the day with a present to his daughter. 

It was the smallest box beneath the tree, covered in gold foil and tied up with a white bow. She eyed her father with curiosity as she opened it. Tears sprang to her eyes. “Papa…”

“Your Mama would have wanted you to have it,” he said, his smile a bit watery. “She didn’t hold with a great deal of jewelry, but she was terribly fond of that ring.”

She put it on immediately, trying its size before settling on her middle right finger. The little golden ring was simple, forming a moon with a pearl star in its crescent, a cluster of three more tiny diamond stars beside it. “I thought it was missing a stone?” she asked.

He nodded. “I sent it off for replacing. Should have given it to you years back, I suppose, but I happened across it a few months ago and decided there was no time like Christmas.”

Belle set her things next to Neal’s on the cushion and went to drop a kiss on her father’s cheek.

The next package that Neal picked up had his name on it, and he knelt on the floor to open it up. Its contents were further wrapped with filmy tissue paper, and he pulled from it a bookbag with his initials monogrammed on the flap. 

“For your school books,” Belle told him while he delved happily into its pockets and buckles, “and anything else you might want to carry around with you.”

Belle, in the guise of Father Christmas, provided the next present that he found, as well - a thin book with an illustration gilded beneath the title, _The Wallypug of Why._ Mrs. Potts cooed over the candied apricots that she received from Neal, and she beckoned him over to smother him in a great, soft hug.

His hesitation with presents meant for himself seemed to have faded a good bit by the time he arrived at a box that he could only just wrap his arms around. Setting it on the floor near his Papa and squatting down to get through the string and paper, he opened the flaps to find the present almost startlingly beginning to make an exit on its own, it was stuffed so closely inside. He finished pulling from the box a stuffed crocodile made of golden-green fustian, its belly and bottoms of its feet lined with a paler green fabric printed in blue water lilies. His eyes lit up as he petted its head and discovered the teeth embroidered to snaggle charmingly over the edges of its mouth.

Rummond had sent away for it by post weeks before in the same order as the gyroscope and a single other very small thing. It had been a couple of months ago that Lieutenant Hargreaves sent a catalog sailing across the space between their bunks, and he’d made good use of it. Neal had mentioned a while back that his teacher had been telling them about African animals, and he’d appeared particularly intrigued by crocodiles - which had seemed quite an apt progression, with the way he’d become enamored of the garden lizards. Rummond thought the toy just the thing. He knew that it wouldn’t replace the bear that Belle gave his son, and in truth, he didn’t want it to.

Neal walked over to the coffee table on his knees and positioned the crocodile beneath so that it peered out. He crawled back to the tree, taking a box from the dwindling pile of presents. He’d been looking forward to seeing this one opened. Standing before he lifted it, he took it over to Belle and set it on her lap, hovering at her knee and nibbling on the inside of his bottom lip.

He’d been at the very last of his pocket money, and he hadn’t had _quite_ enough when he found it on a trip to the grocer’s with Mrs. Potts, but she had helped. Mrs. Potts made up the difference with a few coins in payment for helping her to peel carrots and potatoes and for helping with the shopping. It was a perfect present for Belle, though. He’d known it when he saw it. 

Oddly light for its size, the box nearly covered Belle’s lap. “Now, what is this?” she mused, sliding the ribbon off the box’s corners. The book Neal had given her was a surprise enough; she hadn’t expected him to bring another with his name beneath hers on the tag.

She took off the lid and set it on the floor next to her foot, putting the rest of the box there to join it when she lifted out the contents. It was a wicker basket, large and square-cornered, made to attach to the pannier rack at the rear of her bicycle with a set of straps.

“Your books will fit in it!” Neal said, reaching over to take in his arms the ones he’d received and opening the basket to deposit them inside.

Belle laughed and grabbed him up in another hug. “I believe you know me well.” 

He wasn’t certain he’d ever had so many hugs in a single day, and those were at least as wonderful as the presents - perhaps even better. 

“Thank you, darling,” she said. “I’ll use it every time I get on my bicycle.”

Neal went back to the Christmas tree with a tickled flush in his cheeks over how well she liked her present. 

The next was for Mrs. Potts, and Belle could see the surprise on her face over receiving another. She knew that her father gave the staff a nice pay bonus for Christmas, and she always got Mrs. Potts something to wrap and place under the tree. Neal giving her something wasn’t shocking, but even Belle was curious about what Rummond had brought for her.

She recognized the stitch pattern in the scarf and hat that Mrs. Potts revealed. He’d had Reyes whip them up somewhere amid the rest of the Corporal’s constant knitting.

“You needn’t have given me anything, Captain,” the cook said, but Belle saw the unmistakably pleased sparkle in her eyes. 

The set was bright red, and though Mrs. Potts wouldn’t buy herself anything so bright, Belle knew it to be her favorite color. She wondered whether it was a coincidence or if Neal might have sussed that out the way he did so much else and told his father.

“I wanted to,” Rummond told Mrs. Potts with a shake of his head. “It isn’t much, I’m afraid, but-”

“I _am_ in need of a new scarf, tatty as my good one’s gotten. And store bought hats these days aren’t made for keeping hair in and ears warm all at the same time. Thank you,” Mrs. Potts said, winding the scarf around her neck with satisfaction. “It’s just the thing.”

Neal opened one final book from Belle. “Six books, my stars,” he said, stacking _The Secret Garden_ carefully atop the rest.

Mrs. Potts made a soft snorting sound from the other side of the room at his little exclamation. She sat up straighter then, sniffing the air. She frowned, gathering her presents and hefting herself up from the armchair. “If that ham’s gone and burnt, I’ll have someone’s hide,” she muttered before apologizing for her quick exit and excusing herself.

“This means you’ll have to choose which we read next,” Belle said.

His eyes widened and he tilted to look sideways at the books’ spines. “I’ll have to choose later,” he said thoughtfully.

Belle pressed her lips together, attempting to be serious despite the smile that tried to break through. “That’s all right. You can certainly consider it for a while.”

That left the largest presents beneath the tree and nothing else. Belle sat forward a bit, leaning her arms on her knees while Neal decided which to deliver first. The thrill of everyone seeing what was contained within those last packages was something that had never managed to fade from her childhood.

Neal picked up one of the presents and read the tag, and he took it over to Belle’s father. Maurice tore the paper away to get at the set of a cigar cutter, tube, and match safe in a fine lacquer case lined with Spanish cedar. With the display cushion taken out, it could serve as a humidor. Cigars were a rather recent hobby he’d acquired from a business associate over the past year, and if he _had_ to smoke the things, she supposed she could give him something nice for the corner of his study that he’d dedicated to it.

“It’s lovely, my girl. Thank you,” he said, nodding approvingly as he turned the cutter over in his hands.

“From Papa!” Neal said, and Belle looked to see him holding the remaining package wrapped with brown paper out to her.

It was large and almost flat, covering Neal from chin to knees. She was glad that it had been set aside as one of the last presents. The handing out and unwrapping went so quickly, sometimes, and she didn’t want what Rummond gave her to seem the least bit set aside. 

Belle removed the paper just a bit more carefully than she was wont to do, anticipation warm and tingling in her stomach. She got it half uncovered and went very still.

“Rummond…” she whispered, looking over at him in a way that she very much shouldn’t have in front of her father. Maurice, to his credit, was still so engrossed in his cigar-smoking toys that he didn’t look up right away. 

Rummond smiled, and she managed to only give him a warm smile in return, when she would very much have liked to throw herself into his lap and kiss him. She finished pulling the paper away, propping her present up on her knees to look her fill.

“Well, what is it?” Maurice asked, breaking the silence, and he gave her a bit of his attention. “Let us have a look, if there’s that much to-do over it.”

After a second’s hesitation, she turned it so that her father could see. His expression changed from interest to bewilderment, unable to see what her reaction was about. “It’s… a nice drawing,” he offered.

Framed in simple wood, it was a greatly oversized anatomical drawing of a heart, rosebuds and blooming roses clustered around it. Belle turned it back to herself, stroking her fingers over the petals and then the shaded chambers of the heart, feeling as if the one in her chest could be seen thumping through her blouse.

“It’s absolutely wonderful,” she said softly. She couldn’t stop smiling.

“All right, then. Neal, my boy, bring out that broadest package there,” Maurice said, pointing to the present that leaned against the stone side of the fireplace’s leg. “Yes, that one, that’s it.”

Belle was glad for the distraction, so that she could continue admiring her Christmas present. Rummond’s smile seemed broader and brighter each time she looked at him.

“Perhaps that’s one last from Father Christmas…” Maurice said.

Belle leaned her head around the side of the frame to eye him. “I was unaware this one was from Father Christmas,” she said pointedly. He’d mentioned nothing about it to herself or Mrs. Potts when the wrapping was going on.

Her father gave her a cross look.

“It says it’s from… Maurice,” Neal determined, having gotten the knack of everyone’s names, before tearing into the paper. He laid it flat on the floor and began pulling wide strips of paper away from the box, eventually exposing the blue and orange lid with ‘Lionel Trains’ emblazoned across it.

The Harrods toy shop had ordered it all the way from America for Belle’s father upon request. It had been one of the things that came along on the last delivery from the department store, and most of the reason she’d had to keep Neal distracted upstairs while the Christmas shopping was unloaded and some of it hidden away.

Neal was stunned quiet. He gasped, staring wide-eyed at it before he’d even gotten the lid pried off. The set was brightly painted and each of its twenty-four pieces nestled in compartments, the tracks stacked at the bottom and sides. He leaned to touch the sleek paint of the engine before turning his expression on Maurice.

“Thank you!” he crowed and popped to his feet, hurrying over to Belle’s father. He tugged at Maurice’s jacket sleeve until the large man bent enough that Neal could get arms around his neck, then ran back to plop himself back on the carpet next to the box.

Maurice cleared his throat, finding a sudden and more intense interest in his smoking set. Belle smiled and shook her head.

There was some twinge of jealousy in what Rummond felt, that Maurice could afford something so grand for Neal’s Christmas. At the same time, he was glad that his son would have the set to play with. It was an uncomfortable combination, and he pushed it away.

“One more,” Belle said, prompting Neal to deliver the very last thing that sat beneath the tree. 

He scrambled up, not wanting to neglect the very end of his delivery duties. It wasn’t in a box - when he put his hands on it, there was something squishy under the paper, and it was heavy when he tried to get his arms around it. Afraid he would tear the paper and ruin the surprise, he pushed it over to his Papa.

Rummond looked at the package with its rounded edges as though it might bite him. He cast a look to Belle, whose name was the only other on the tag besides his own, and she watched him expectantly.

“Open it,” she whispered, gesturing toward the present with an encouraging wave of her hand.

He leaned to pick it up with a great crinkling of paper, setting it across his knees. The wrappings had been secured on two ends with ribbon to hold it together and tied with a looping bow in the center, and he had a bit of a time unraveling it. He opened the paper from the back, pulling it away, and he was left with a quilt on his lap. Blues and browns, white here and there, the prettiest example of bedclothes he’d ever seen.

“You _made_ this?” he asked, more than a bit dumbfounded.

“Mrs. Potts was a firm guiding hand, but yes.” She nodded, and he could see her holding herself back. Rummond’s wish that this were their own private Christmas returned fiercely.

Belle had never sewn much, not outside of suturing and the odd bit of embroidery Mrs. Potts had attempted to set her at when she was a child. She wondered just how badly she’d tried Mrs. Potts’ patience over the months she worked on the quilt.

She watched as Rummond ran a hand over the part of it that was folded on top. He liked it - she could tell that much. He didn’t get that look on his face over something unless he felt sentimental toward it. She wanted to tell him which pieces were which, but that wasn’t something she could do with her father in the room.

“Thank you, Belle,” he said, looking up at her. There were more words being dammed behind those, but he didn’t give voice to them. For once, she wished her father would go and have a cigar.

She glanced to her father. He was leaning over as well as he could, chatting with Neal about the train set. 

“You’re welcome,” she replied. “Perhaps it can take the place of one or two on your pile of blankets. It’s big enough for a regular bed, but I thought you could fold it in half and get twice the warmth and weight out of it while it’s on your hospital bed.”

The smile he gave her was lopsided and filled with emotion. Belle reached over as though she were doing no more than touching the quilt, and she let her hand slide alongside his before ever so reluctantly sitting back in her own space again. She hadn’t anticipated the last two days to be as frustrating over little things as they’d turned out. Rummond draped the quilt over the settee arm next to him, unable to keep his fingers from tracing the shapes of it. And she could scarcely keep her eyes off of his fingers.

Everyone admired their new things, playing with the parts that worked, giving long looks to the things that were pretty for prettiness’ sake. Rummond called his son over, and he lifted him up to sit on his lap. He showed Neal how to wind his new watch, changing the time so that he could see how the hands jumped back to the left when they hit twelve, and explained how to read the time on it while he set it once again.

After a while, as it neared breakfast time, Maurice took his smoking set and went off to his study to give it a test. Neal sat on the floor to play with the parts of his train, stopping just short of putting it all together because he knew that it would have to be moved upstairs later.

Belle handled sitting quietly on the opposite side of the settee for as long as she could. She finally moved Neal’s things to the coffee table after Babette cleared it, and she shifted over to sit nearer Rummond. 

“This book,” she began, picking up the copy of _The Tin Soldier_ that Neal had given his father. She lowered her voice, leaning to speak so that only Rummond heard, and he inclined his head to listen. “You remember the play I took him to see, the tin soldier and the ballerina? Neal saw this and he wanted it so badly for you.”

“I’ve a feeling it’s nothing to do with the fairy tale, is it?” he asked, looking at his son’s back while he played.

“Not as such, no. It’s a good bit about the war,” she explained. “One of the characters… Well, he would fit right in on the east ward. And there are some nasty remarks over men who didn’t join the effort. I only thought- I didn’t want you to try reading it out of obligation and being upset by it.”

Rummond chuckled, and Neal looked over his shoulder to smile at his Papa before going back to playing. “If he asks after it, I’ll ask you for a summary of some sort. If that’s all right.”

“It’s always all right,” she assured him. 

Belle looked back at the drawing where its frame leaned against the side of the coffee table and her heart felt as if it doubled a beat. “Rum…” she began, moving her hand to rest near his knee. She didn’t want to offend him, but she worried the more she thought. He’d brought an awful lot of presents. “You didn’t spend too much, did you?”

“No, no,” he said, placing his hand over hers and curling his fingers in against her palm. “It turns out Commander Strand is quite the artist. He drew it for me in trade for repairing his watch a while back.”

He’d asked Dr. Hopper for a copy of _Gray’s Anatomy_ to give the Commander an example to go by, and Dove had taken it to be framed, since he couldn’t. He wished that he could have drawn it himself, but he’d never been more than hopeless at that sort of art.

Belle lifted a hand to cup his cheek, and he turned toward her touch like a plant reaching for the sun. She leaned in for a short and chaste kiss. “I love it.”

“It’s intended for your office. Somewhere thereabouts. When you have one,” he said in his fluster over being kissed right there in the sitting room, despite Neal’s back being turned to them and no one else being present to see. It still felt a bit public, and it made something flutter beneath his ribcage.

She sat back, looking at him in confusion. “Office?”

“Your clinic, in its eventual creation. But I’m certain it’ll be happy to live in your bedroom, in the meantime.”

Belle laughed, shaking her head. “I suppose I _must_ have that office, now. Since I have something to put in it.”

“Speaking of too much…” He returned his hand to the quilt, petting the fabrics that had been pieced together to make it up. “Belle.”

“Don’t you like it?”

“I love it,” he amended quickly. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had anything so nice. It’s so much work, though.”

The pattern looked something like four-petaled flowers, or perhaps butterflies - she wasn’t certain. Mrs. Potts had brought out template clippings from ladies’ magazines, and she’d clucked her tongue when Belle set her heart on the ‘winding ways’ pattern. The way they were pieced made it appear as though there were circles overlapping, and it was very fetching to the eye. It had been difficult at first, but she was a quick learner and Mrs. Potts was patient, and she’d gotten it finished only a fortnight before Christmas. 

“It was well worth it. Look.” She scooted closer to his side and pointed to a brown piece - soft, worn corduroy. “This is from Neal’s trousers. The ones he came to you with. They weren’t fit for wearing, but there was enough to cut pieces from. And here, the plain white pieces are made from his shirt. I got the dark blue from a jacket in his suitcase.

“And this?” Rummond asked with a smile, his fingertips stroking over a piece of light tan fabric covered in tiny, golden-brown paisleys. “I don’t recall seeing this on him.”

“Well, I might have used a few things of my own,” she admitted with a grin. It had been a selfish addition, perhaps, the pieces cut from her own older things. She’d done it out of enjoyment at the thought that he would have something of her on his bed.

He pointed to another piece. “What is this from?”

“A blouse.”

Rummond moved his finger toward the edge of the quilt, looking to her again.

She leaned, looking at the more slender inner border, a pale blue cotton with small white flowers. “One of my summer nightgowns,” she whispered, pressing her lips together after the words made it out.

His smile took on a bit of a shy tilt, and he rested a hand on the dark blue outer corner. “And this one?”

“That’s one of my old petticoats. The backing is the only part that’s bought new.”

“Thank you,” he said yet again, taking her hand and lifting it so that he could press a kiss to her fingers. “It’s beautiful, love.”

Belle only narrowly kept herself from squirming with delight.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

“On Christmas, Papa?” Belle said with obvious disapproval.

“Only a few things, my dear, only a few.” Maurice finished the last bite of his ham omelet and rose from the chair at the head of the table, blotting his mouth with his napkin. He was headed out of the dining room as soon as he set the napkin down. “Go about your fun! I’ll be back before you know it.”

She frowned after him. It did no good to shame him for working on Christmas morning - not when there were other men who apparently had nothing better to do than talk money today, as well. She settled into her chair again and ate her eggs at a far more sensible speed than her father. 

Mrs. Potts’ baked apples had gone over famously. Neal ate two along with the rest of his breakfast, and Rummond took a second, as well, once it seemed clear that no one else wanted another. Belle had never seen him eat as much at one sitting, and she hoped that his appetite remained improved. It was so nice to see him enjoy a meal.

“Can I go outside?” Neal asked, taking a careful sip of cocoa and setting the cup back in its saucer.

Rummond looked at him in surprise. “Outside? In this cold?”

Neal looked to Belle, not certain what to do. She’d been letting him play in the snow a little when they had enough of it.

“We bundle up sometimes and go out into the garden for a while. He’s been enjoying the snow.” She smiled at Neal, then turned to Rummond with raised eyebrows. “You should join us.”

That seemed to change his mind. He nodded, cutting a bite of apple. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

“Josephine, would you please fetch our outdoor things?” Belle asked the maid who stood back next to the dining room door. “We’ve nearly finished here, anyway.”

There was barely a breeze to speak of, but the air was well beyond bracing when they stepped out the back door and into the garden that Neal had told his father so much about. Rummond sat on one of the small, wrought iron benches around the garden table and watched as his son darted out across the patio, flopping onto his back on the ground first thing to get a head start on snow angels.

Belle followed Neal out into the snow, dipping down to catch a handful of it in one gloved hand, and formed it into a ball. She tossed it right onto the boy and it burst in the middle of his stomach. He squawked cheerfully and sat up, gathering a snowball of his own and accepting the challenge.

For a few moments, Rummond felt a sadness and wished that he could get out there with them, to run and play and participate in more ways than parking himself and watching. He shook it off. He was _there,_ with his son and Belle, _on Christmas,_ and he was going to make the most of it. Not being able to caper around the way they did didn’t mean he could do nothing at all.

He took his bench and pushed it near where the snow had drifted around the patio’s edge, sitting down again, and leaned to scoop up a handful. Forming a snowball that wasn’t packed too hard, he threw it at Belle.

He’d only meant to wing the skirt of her coat. His aim off, it hit her right in the behind, and she spun to look at him.

Rummond’s wide-eyed expression held a bit of horror, and her own shocked, open smile turned into laughter at the way he looked back at her. Neal, squatted down with his attention on making another snowball, had no idea what had just happened. He giggled anyway as he patted the snow between his mittens.

“Neal, can I have the snowball you’re working on?” she asked.

He finished packing it and held it up to her. Belle wound up, pulling her arm back, and lobbed it at Rummond. He threw up an arm in defense, and the ball hit him square in the chest. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him laugh so hard as he did when he brushed the snow away, and he downright smirked as he leaned down to make another.

Their snowball fight didn’t last too long before she decided to go and sit next to him while Neal played himself tired. When he saw her heading toward him, he stood and took another bench from the table, placing it next to his own. She sat with him, talking and watching Neal, not realizing how she gradually turned toward him, nor how her knees came to rest between his own.

The snow had slowed, but it hadn’t stopped falling. Rummond only realized how cold Belle was when he saw snowflakes catching in her hair without melting. Her nose and cheeks were bitten pink with it.

“Perhaps we should go in,” he suggested, looking down at how she opened and closed her hands.

“Oh, let him play a bit longer,” she said, looking up at him. “He’s enjoying himself so much.”

She squeezed her numb, gloved hands together. They were so cold that she could hardly move her fingers, but she didn’t want to make Neal go inside just yet. He squealed and threw his arms wide, falling backward into another pile of neat and undamaged snow.

Rummond took his gloves off and reached for her hands, pulling her gloves off, as well, and tucked all four into his coat pocket. He held her icy hands cupped between his own and bowed his head to blow warm breath into them. Her fingers tingled, then hurt, and after a few breaths, they came back to life. She watched with such fondness that her ribs ached a bit. Bravery stemming from the knowledge that her father had buried himself in work and that the staff was busy cleaning and preparing for lunch, as well as a little boy who was distracted with waving his arms and legs in the snow as hard as he could, she leaned for a kiss. 

He hummed softly against her lips. The warmth of her mouth felt searing in comparison to the cold that bit at them. She dared a lick against his lower lip before they pulled back, and there was that odd, giddy, high-altitude feeling that jumped into the bottom of his stomach. 

“I have one more present for you,” he said, reaching into the inner pocket of his coat. He drew out a thin box, only a few inches long, and held it out for her.

He wasn’t certain, but he thought perhaps it might still be inappropriate in the eyes of people who didn’t know any better about them, to give her jewelry. So he’d held this one thing back to wait for a moment away from prying eyes. It wasn’t much, but he wanted to give her something that she might sometimes wear.

Belle took the lid off the cardpaper box and her smile widened. Inside was a tiny stick pin. It was a pearl set in a loop of gold with three leaves underneath, just the right size to wear every day without inviting too many questions.

“Oh, it’s lovely! Thank you,” she told him again, and she unbuttoned the top button of her coat to put it on her blouse right away.

Rummond watched as she fiddled with its placement. Something from the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he looked over. At first there were only dark spots. They could have been leaves caught beneath the snow, if they hadn’t brightened. And spread.

He closed his eyes and pulled in a breath, hating how the first one gasped into his lungs, and tried to will the blood away.

“Why don’t we go back inside?” Belle suggested, seeing in the lines of his face that something was wrong. “I think we’ve had enough snow for one day.”

Rummond opened his eyes and looked at her before he glanced over at the snow. It was pristine and white, all traces of the intrusion gone for now.

“I’m nearly frozen to the bone, anyway,” she went on.

He nodded, visibly shaken and suddenly seeming a bit smaller. “We should go in and warm up.” 

She called for Neal and he came along, shaking off some of the snow that clung to his boots before hopping onto the patio and stomping them to get rid of more.

The snow on their hair and shoulders melted in the toasty atmosphere of the house as soon as they were back inside. Belle bent to pull her boots off and leaned back out to set them on the scraper next to the door, and Neal followed suit. She closed the garden door and they were in blessed warmth once again.

Rummond sighed, and she looked to him. He shook his head. “I’m only tired.”

“It’s no wonder. This is the most you’ve been up and about for a while,” she said, though she didn’t believe that was the fullest truth of it. 

“Here.” Belle held her hands out for Neal’s coat. She turned to Rummond, wiggling her fingers to request his, as well. “I’ll be back in a moment. I’m going to give these to Babette to set out and dry.”

He obediently handed over his outdoor things and went back to the sitting room with Neal. He went to take his place on the settee by the hearth. The quilt that Belle gave him still lay folded over its side. He rested his arm on it, fingertips tracing the quilting stitches.

Neal climbed up next to him, bringing his shoes but not yet putting them on. He settled against his father, content in the way of children who have all of their favorite things in one place.

“I love Belle,” he said, thoughtful and quiet, snuggling into his Papa’s side.

Rummond smiled, pressing a kiss to his son’s curls, and whispered, “I’m glad that you do, duckling”

Neal quieted, drumming his fingers on the cushion next to him. After a few moments, he asked, “Is it okay that I got so many new things today?”

“Of course it is,” Rummond said, putting an arm around his son. “Everything you received, you got because someone _wanted_ to give it to you.”

“You don’t think it was too much?”

“I don’t think it was too much. I think it was just right,” Rummond assured him.

When Belle returned, Neal had fallen asleep snugged close to his father. She smiled, and Rummond, who looked as though he was very near joining his son, smiled up at her. She sat on the other side of Neal and curled her legs onto the cushion. The boy stirred, though he didn’t wake completely, and he reached for her hand. Belle let him have it, and he pulled it so that her arm was a bit around him, her hand ending up pressed between Neal’s side and Rummond’s hip. his arm was around Neal, and the way she sat, the back of his hand touched her thigh.

For a few seconds, she thought about moving. It had happened innocently enough, though. Neal was holding onto her arm, obviously having claimed it. And it would wake him if she took her hand away. She left it. 

Rummond let his head rest against the back of the settee, closing his eyes, and she leaned so that her temple rested on the back cushion. She looked at the two of them. It fed some happy bit of peace in her, sitting there with them this way. She didn’t know when she closed her eyes, exactly, but the fire was so warm and the cushions so comfortable that she couldn’t help feeling sleepy, herself. 

The next thing she knew, Mrs. Potts was waking her. “It’s time for lunch,” she said, patting Belle’s shoulder. 

Belle’s face warmed and pinked. Somehow it was almost _more_ awkward than being walked up on in a heated clinch, being found asleep together. “We’ll be right there,” she said.

“You’re lucky I came to fetch you before your father...” Mrs. Potts singsonged as she left to do just that.

Christmas lunch was as big as breakfast had been, and though Rummond was barely feeling peckish by then, he filled his plate with the intention of clearing it. Neal chattered about the things he was already planning to draw in his new pad, and he declared that he would save his new crayons for home, since the boy who sat behind him at school tended to borrow his and give them back broken.

“That smoking set works like a dream,” Maurice told his daughter when Neal took a breath and a bite of food. “I moved my cigars into the box of it, and I do believe they already taste better.”

Belle laughed. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it. I saw it and thought you might.”

Rummond reached for his water glass at just the moment something fell with a _bang!_ in the kitchen. He startled violently, his hand hitting the glass rather than wrapping around it, and water streamed across the table.

“I’m sorry!” He righted the glass and grabbed his napkin, attempting to soak some of it up. “I’m so sorry!”

“Rummond, it’s all right. It’s all right,” Belle said, standing so that Josephine could get in to place a tea towel over the puddle before it ran off the edge.

“It’s fine, don’t fret over it,” Maurice told him. “I should tell you about the time Belle upturned an entire tureen of potato soup!”

Her jaw dropped. “Papa, I was seven!” 

“She was excited over some new book coming in at the bookstore,” her father went on. She looked at Rummond, who had stopped, listening, though the dismay was still on his face. “So excited that she flung a hand out and hit the soup tureen Mrs. Potts was attempting to set down, making it swing so hard it landed bottom side up.”

“Papa.” She splayed a hand over her face.

“All over the table, running onto the floor. But it stoppered itself still half full, being upside-down as it was.” Maurice laughed, slapping a hand against his leg. “The table had to be cleared of everything else, and the maids and Lumiere had to take hold of the table cloth and tureen all at the same time to turn it upright again so that the rest didn’t go pouring out!”

Rummond felt himself smiling at the imagining of it. They were trying to help, trying to make him comfortable, and it unwound the sudden knot of nerves in him a bit. 

“Here, now, you see?” Belle said when Josephine stepped away to take a handful of wet cloths and his empty water glass back to the kitchen. She smiled up at Rummond. “No harm done.”

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

The rest of the day passed in blur of food and company. After dinner, Rummond sat on the floor with Neal, playing with him and chatting about anything his son could set his mind to. 

He felt full right up to his ears. He’d never had such a lavish dinner, holidays or otherwise. His father, despite the money Malcolm had acquired, never went in for ‘family’ mealtime. Rummond had eaten in the kitchen with Dove, most meals. The holiday dinners they’d had when he was married were nice enough, but far more modest than the French Christmas feast.

Some of nearly everything had ended up on his plate, and a few things twice. Among it had been turkey and quail and oyster stuffing in both, Mrs. Potts’ own recipe for Parisian salad, buttered peas, and rice croquettes. Dessert was a showy plum pudding, chess pie, walnut gems, ginger fudge… and chocolate ice cream - the only thing he’d been forced to turn down completely.

He hadn’t realized until he was given the choice of it, but the thought of ice cream of any sort reminded him of being force fed. The coldness in his throat and sitting in his stomach - he couldn’t stand it. He did, however, make a sizable dent in the plate of walnut gems.

His time wound down faster than he expected it to. Neal’s bedtime arrived, and his son knew what that meant. They’d decided that it would be easiest for him to leave once Neal was in bed.

“I won’t be here when you wake,” Rummond explained as he helped his son into pajamas. “But I’ll see you bright and early on Sunday. Only two days away, right?”

Neal lunged forward to circle his arms around his Papa’s neck. His Papa had been there all day the day before and all day today, and he wasn’t ready for him to go. He knew that he would see his Papa again in just a couple of days. He _knew_ it. It still scared Neal that he was leaving.

His eyes burned and he pretended his hardest that he wasn’t crying, because he couldn’t make the feeling go away.

Rummond eased his son’s arms from around him. Neal tried to hold onto handfuls of his shirt and the edges of his waistcoat, and it broke his heart. “Let’s get you into bed, all right? I’ll tuck you and Fleep in.”

“I love you, Papa,” his son said, grabbing hold of his waistcoat between two buttons.

His throat felt far too tight suddenly. “I love you, too. So much.”

 _“Please_ don’t go?” Neal pled. He reached for his Papa’s shirt sleeve again when his hand was moved. He knew he was whining, and his Mum hated it when he whined, but he couldn’t _help_ it this time.

“Do you want me to rock you to sleep one more time?” Rummond asked gently. He stopped pulling his son’s hands away. There had to be a better and less painful way to go about this. 

The little boy’s breath snubbed, and he nodded. Rummond went over to the rocking chair with his son attached. Neal clambered into his lap, squirming down and laying his head in the bend of his father’s arm, one hand reaching up to curl over the neck of his waistcoat as though he could keep him from leaving if he held on.

Belle went back upstairs to check on Rummond. The car had been pulled around for nearly half an hour, and he hadn’t come back down from putting Neal to bed. She hoped that nothing was wrong, but worried that there was.

The guest room door stood open, but the door of Neal’s room was just ajar. When she stood close, she heard that familiar, soft singing again, and she knew that she couldn’t hurry him. She could go in, though.

Neal was looking up at his father when she stepped inside, watching him. He looked drowsy but intent on staying awake.

“He doesn’t want to sleep?” she whispered when the song had finished, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Rummond shook his head, smiling calmly down at his son. “He will, though.”

She could see the sadness lacing his smile, though she was reasonably certain that it wasn’t something Neal would notice. He would only see his Papa smiling at him, she hoped.

“You’re all right, duckling,” he murmured in an effort to comfort his son. “You’re all right. Go on to sleep, and we’ll see one another again in no time.”

Neal’s eyes began to drift shut, but he drew a deep breath and widened them, trying to force himself awake.

“Why do you call him ‘duckling’? If you don’t mind telling?” Belle asked. 

Rummond hummed softly. “He got terribly ill not long after he was born. So clogged he could hardly breathe. Frightened the life out of me. I was certain that…” He shook his head, his mouth thinning into a line for a moment. Lifting the hand that didn’t pat his son’s back, he touched the boy’s cheek. “A neighbor told us to take him into the kitchen and close the doors, boil as much water as we could get on the stove. It worked, but oh, he hated it. He cried hard as he could, but he was so congested, he couldn’t make much of a noise. Sounded like a duckling’s peep, and I told him so. I suppose it stuck.”

Between his father’s voice and the motion of the chair, Neal finally gave over to sleep, however against his will it might have been. His eyes closed and his mouth went slack, fingers going limp where he held onto his father’s clothes.

Belle moved from the bed as Rummond rose carefully from the rocking chair, and she helped to get Neal settled with blankets pulled up around him and Phillipe tucked close. She would have to keep her ears open and perked for him tonight.

Rummond kissed Neal’s cheek, taking his cane when Belle offered it. He stood there for long moments, doing nothing more than watching his son sleep. It was time to go, and he didn’t want to.

Belle accompanied him to the guest room across the hall. She waited while he put his jacket and coat on, took his borrowed overnight bag, and turned toward the door. They looked at one another for a half dozen heartbeats, at which point Belle’s entire reserve of self-control ran out and she very nearly accosted him. She threw her arms around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss.

She could feel his hands flounder for a second before he dropped his bag to wrap his arms around her. It was a kiss that felt a little like panic and a lot like desperation on both sides, and they were both out of breath and unable to smile when it broke. He leaned his forehead to touch hers. She held onto handfuls of his hair at the nape of his neck, wanting more than anything to keep him right here.

He needed more time in the hospital, she told herself. He was so much better than he’d been, but he still needed the east ward, and she couldn’t deny that even after the loveliness of the last day and a half. She didn’t speak and neither did he as they walked downstairs together. 

“I’ll see you in the morning,” she managed quietly when the door was open and the frigid wind sent a chill along her skin, shivering her from her silence.

“I know,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

“Sleep well.” She fought to keep her hands to herself, wanting straighten his already straight collar, to touch his cheek, to grab his hands - anything to get one more second of contact. “I love you…”

Rummond stopped on the wide top step and turned back to her. His fingers twitched with the instinct to reach out for her, and he tightened them around the metal handle of his cane. 

“I love you,” he repeated in a soft, strained voice. “Sweet dreams?”

A breathy laugh puffed from her lungs into the night air. “I hope so.”

“Check in on Neal?”

“I will. He’ll be all right. He gets upset, but he does understand, Rum.”

He’d had nearly two days with her and with his son. He was being greedy, but he wanted more than anything in the world to stay. Only another night. Even a few more hours.

Despite the kiss she’d gotten upstairs - possibly because of it - she wanted to kiss him once more. Horatio stood right there, though. She had to watch from the doorstep as Rummond got into the tourer and Horatio shut the door, cutting him off from her.

Once the tourer had driven completely out of sight, Belle closed the front door and walked away from it. She stood in the entryway feeling quite lost. Her entirely un-quiet father, Neal, Mrs. Potts, staff, and… the house felt suddenly and oddly empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visual aids:  
> [Winding Ways quilt](http://66.media.tumblr.com/b6ecd174946e17cca7e00519b207b5c7/tumblr_oc7aedgSzd1sn4l8ho1_1280.png)  
> [Colette’s ring](https://67.media.tumblr.com/9e738b4a922983548398d0090bb2900c/tumblr_mg6b1wUvRB1qzi2nqo1_540.jpg)  
> [Belle’s bicycle basket](https://66.media.tumblr.com/908aecb3b4a91dbb0b28b13d70d72863/tumblr_oby0wcwr5a1sn4l8ho5_400.png)  
> [Neal’s bookbag](https://66.media.tumblr.com/363b9646e7379f3e3afef19a08588c37/tumblr_oby0wcwr5a1sn4l8ho8_400.png)  
> [Belle’s pearl stickpin](http://66.media.tumblr.com/8e89ae50c313f3a835fa7f9b39be831a/tumblr_oc7amfUw4k1sn4l8ho1_1280.jpg)  
> (also, I made a little [image set for the Christmas chapters](http://ishtarelisheba.tumblr.com/post/149858623789/rummond-smiled-and-she-managed-to-only-give-him))


	96. The Life of A Fool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Warning for sort of minor character death.)

“Don’t you look nice?” Belle said as Graham joined the rest of the nurses in the corridor outside of the head nurse’s office. She smiled, giving him a fond once-over when he walked up.

It was his first day in a new uniform, and he had on the required black trousers and short white smock in place of the gray tunic he’d worn as an orderly. Dr. Whale had gotten in touch with the General Nursing Council before Christmas, and approval of Firefly Hill for the training of male nurses had gone through only the day before. Just in time for the coming New Year.

She reached up to straighten the lapel watch he wore near his left shoulder. The metal was steely and brushed, its style square and plain, as if to draw as little attention as possible. She didn’t ask, but she was fairly certain that it was a present from Dr. Hopper. Graham had given it one look too many, for it to have not been.

Graham grinned back at her. “Second time I’ve heard that this morning.”

Nurse Mills was inside - Belle could see the shadows shifting ever so slightly in the light beneath the door. The head nurse simply enjoyed making them wait. She checked her watch. If they didn’t go in soon, they would be late on shift.

“Are you all right for this briefing?” she asked quietly.

He twitched a decisive nod. “Just fine,” he said. “I have to be, if I’m going to do this.”

Belle reached out, giving his forearm an encouraging squeeze. Just about then the lock clicked back, and Nurse Nolan opened the door onto the waiting nurses. Ruby closed it behind them once they’d filed inside.

“We’ve a new patient being admitted the beginning of next week. Rosters will be amended to reflect that at the appropriate time,” the head nurse began with a measure of disinterest that irritated Belle.

It seemed that everything the head nurse did and said these days fed her rage toward the woman a bit more. She moved unconsciously closer to Graham. There was nothing she could _do,_ really, and she didn’t like the helpless feeling of it. 

“I’m sure you’ve all noticed that we have a peculiar addition to the nursing staff,” Nurse Mills said once she’d finished with the usual announcements, a snide taunt evident in her voice. _“Nurse Humbert_ will be training with Nurse French.”

Belle didn’t miss how many of the other nurses turned smiles on Graham when they looked to him, despite the head nurse’s blatant contempt.

“I trust that we will all keep our eyes open and correct our new colleague in any missteps he might have along the way,” Nurse Mills went on.

Even accustomed to holding her tongue as Belle was, she had to bite the edges between her back teeth to keep quiet. The nurses suffered a bit more of such ‘welcoming’ remarks before they were dismissed. Many of the nurses paused to offer congratulations and encouragements to Graham, leaving him cheered and a bit pink.

“Nurse French,” the head nurse said after they’d begun to file slowly out of the office again, “Nurse Humbert, I would like a private word.”

Belle let a roll of her eyes slip while her back was turned, and she faced Nurse Mills with as professional an expression as she had in her. With a look, the head nurse dismissed Nurse Nolan, as well, and the door closed on the three of them.

“I expect exemplary performance, or I’ll have no problem disciplining you both,” Nurse Mills said, stepping from around her desk. She looked from one to the other with cold eyes and a sharp turn of her lips. “I’m certain that Nurse Humbert is as capable of it in this as he is in… _other_ areas.”

Belle’s eyes narrowed and her mouth opened, and she was grateful for Graham’s interruption, because she wasn’t certain what might have come out of it. 

“You’ve nothing to worry about, as far as my work goes,” he told the head nurse, his voice even and lilting low. “You’ll find my record at this hospital near spotless.”

“Near,” the head nurse repeated, tilting her head back. “We shall see. Dismissed.”

Graham turned to open the door, letting Belle out first and quickly following. He traded a somber look with her. She took a deep breath, trying to shake off her anger before going onto the ward.

“I swear, Nurse Mills’ mood gets worse and worse,” Nurse Boyd complained as they passed in the corridor.

Nurse Nolan, walking next to her, stopped and Nurse Boyd had to turn back to stay with the conversation. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Belle hesitated. The desire to hear wasn’t so much out of curiosity over the head nurse’s mood as it was to gather information. Anything might have been useful in her goal to do something - _anything_ \- about the way Nurse Mills spread harm around. She paused at the chart table near the ward doors, motioning for Graham to wait as she pretended to sort through for something.

Nurse Nolan pulled Nurse Boyd over by the wall and stood with her head leaned near, whispering. “Oh, she’s been in a terrible way. She wasn’t allowed to visit her sister over Christmas - the asylum wouldn’t allow it.”

“That’s just awful,” Nurse Boyd agreed. “One would think, Christmas.”

“There was some sort of small fracas with Nurse Mills’ sister and one of the doctors,” Nurse Nolan continued. “She was given a week’s confinement and some Dr. Hadean was suspended.”

Nurse Boyd’s eyes widened a bit. “That doesn’t sound so small…”

“Nurse Mills says she plans to have the asylum investigated, but the way it sounds, disciplinary action was deserved all around.”

It was interesting information, Belle decided, turning what she’d heard over in her mind. But she couldn’t use Nurse Mills’ sister against her. She was ready to do many things, but using a sick woman who had no business in this was not one of them.

Rummond was reading when she stepped onto the ward, and it was a small testament to how calm he was, that he had enough interest in his book that he didn’t look up right away at the sound of the door. It wasn’t until she neared the other side of Reyes’ space that her footsteps drew his attention. 

“Good morning,” she greeted, placing herself on the edge of his bed.

Rummond’s hand moved from the pages of his book to his knee, his fingers rubbing slowly against one another as he smiled up at her. “Good morning.”

He still wanted to reach for her as badly as she wanted to reach for him. Having to keep her hands more to herself chafed at her nerves after enjoying something nearer free reign over touching him.

She waited for the question he’d asked every morning these last few mornings.

“How did Neal fare last night?”

“Better,” she replied, resting her hand over his. “Still a bit unhappy, particularly at bedtime, but still working on understanding. He did stay in his bed all night, though.”

Neal slept through Christmas night, but he’d been going to her room in the middle of every night since, shyly asking if he could stay with her. The first morning had been the worst for him. He’d gotten out of bed and tapped at her door as she was getting ready for work, tearful and asking whether his Papa really had gone back to the hospital. She had been a few minutes late on that morning, owing to holding Neal until he’d stopped crying. For the first couple of days afterward, his new things hadn’t seen much playtime at all. Every drawing had reflected the hours his father spent with them. The visit on this Sunday past had helped, though, and Belle was certain that the next one would help him all the more. His days were returning to the ‘normal’ they’d become while living in the French house.

She wasn’t certain whether Rummond truly handled it better, or if he was simply more adept at hiding his upset than a six-year-old. Judging by the looks she’d seen cross his face when he was unaware that she watched, she’d have wagered on the latter.

Rummond turned his hand beneath Belle’s so that he could curl his fingers over the back of hers, and he soaked up all the warmth and contact he could from it. He hadn’t anticipated how it would feel to go from being allowed so many touches and back to the hospital, where they returned to the very definite dearth of it. Every bit of touch felt like a stolen luxury again.

The ward had been only a few minutes from lights out when he returned on Christmas night, and all of the day’s visitors had gone. He’d hurried to get back into a hospital gown and put his belongings away. Nurse Halloran had seen to setting his suit and things aside so that Dove could return for them the next morning, and she’d carried the quilt in for him. He’d insisted on spreading it over the bunk himself, though, folding it in half longways as Belle had suggested. In the minutes before she switched off the lights, he admired it all over again, pulled over his lap and running his hands across it. The quilt was as wonderfully heavy as he expected it to be, and though sleep didn’t come, he’d felt somehow comforted by it. He spent one night with it on top before placing one of the hospital’s blankets over it to keep it safe.

He was tickled to find that Belle wore the pearl stick pin he’d given her right next to her watch, nestled in the small space between its bow-shaped pin and face. It fit just right there, unobtrusive enough that likely no one would notice. That was a very good thing, for now, he told himself. Someday, though, he wished to be able to give her something that would catch attention.

“He’s the new orderly on the ward,” Belle said.

Rummond looked from the stick pin to her face, caught with his mind wandering. “New orderly?”

She grinned, her free hand going up to run a fingertip across the tiny pearl. “Gus Muis,” she repeated, nodding toward the young black man who stood near the ward doors talking with Humbert. “He’ll be taking Graham’s empty position as orderly. He’s a hard worker, very sweet temperament.”

“As long as he isn’t another Gardner or Lowell.”

“Oh, no, the farthest from it. I’m glad we’ve gotten him. He’ll be more helpful than those two put together,” she assured. “Speaking of which, I need to go and get Graham started. Today is his first official day as a nurse.”

“I did suspect.” Rummond smiled up at her. “Wish the boy luck for me.”

“I’ll tell him. And I’ll be back in a while.” Belle slipped her hand away from his, patting his leg before she rose and left him to see to her new nurse-in-training.

Breakfast trays had barely been taken back to the kitchen when a stranger stepped onto the ward. An older gentleman wearing what was quite obviously an expensive black suit and coat, carrying a sleek attaché case, came in dusting snow from his lapels. He’d a large, well-groomed white beard, hair to match, and a heavy, wrinkled brow between them. The man stood just inside the doors, waiting to be noticed. It wasn’t a long wait. 

Belle set Graham about changing the bandages around the stump of Commander Strand’s leg, and she meant to go have a word with Dr. Whale about the poor fit of what was supposedly a fine and expensive prosthesis. When she turned to go and do just that, the sudden appearance of the bearded gentleman brought her up short.

There didn’t seem to be an air of malice around the man as she approached, but any surprise visitors unsettled her a bit. “Sir? Are you looking for someone in particular?”

“Good morning to you,” he said, reaching up to remove his hat. His demeanor was polite and businesslike, though perhaps a tad morose. “I’m looking for a Mr. Rummond Gold, son of Mr. Malcolm Gold. Is he still in residence here, by chance?”

 _“Captain_ Rummond Gold,” Belle corrected before allowing him any farther.

“Ah, yes, of course,” the man said, giving a deep nod of his head in apology. “The paperwork did include his military service. My mistake.”

She frowned at the mention of paperwork. “He’s still admitted,” she acknowledged.

“Might I have a word with him?” the gentleman pressed after a moment, when she didn’t go on.

Belle let her look over him go on for a bit longer before she nodded, turning so that he could follow. “The Captain’s bed is this way.”

She delivered the man to Rummond’s bedside, widening her eyes in an equal lack of information when he gave her a questioning look.

“Captain Gold, my name is Dawid Stutler,” she heard as the man introduced himself before she walked away. 

Belle lingered nearby, suspicious despite not having a bad feeling about this Mr. Stutler. Something still felt not quite on. She went to Corporal Reyes, asking after his mouse. 

Mr. Stutler remarked upon being a solicitor from London proper, telling Rummond in an oddly soothing voice that he handled estates and wills - that manner of thing.

Reyes’ mouse - Mortimer, he’d named it - escaped his hands, and there was a momentary panic as he worked to catch it as it skittered beneath the covers. She hurried to cup her hands around the small, quickly moving lump in the blanket, and Reyes slipped his hands around to cup the woodmouse between them with a sigh of relief.

 _“Dead?”_ Belle heard Rummond choke out suddenly, and she turned.

She went over, hovering nearby for all of two seconds. She wasn’t certain whether she would be intruding. A death, after all… But Rummond searched for her, looked up at her with his face blank and open in shock, and she stepped over to stand next to him.

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Stutler said, glancing between them. 

Rummond looked as though he struggled to take a breath. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but it took him another breath to try and get words out. “What happened?”

“His heart failed him. A bit after seven last evening,” Mr. Stutler replied.

 _The irony of that,_ Belle thought. She then wondered if she should feel badly for it. Her concern was for Rummond, though, and none of it for the late plague of his childhood.

The solicitor began talking about a will, about estate and money. “Actually, Captain, if I might pull up a chair…”

Belle looked to Rummond, who didn’t seem as though he were completely present. “Can’t the rest of this be seen to later?” she asked.

“Oh. Well, I suppose it could.” Mr. Stutler frowned a bit.

She took a half step toward him. “Then, respectfully, I think it might be best that you leave and return another day for business.”

He looked to Rummond, then took his hat and attaché case from the table. “I’ll have the funeral details sent over this evening. We should discuss the rest soon afterward. My office address and telephone-” Mr. Stutler began, producing a crisp white business card with neat print on both sides from his inner coat pocket.

Belle took it. “Thank you. Captain Gold will be in touch as soon as possible.”

She waited only as long as it took for the ward door to close behind Malcolm Gold’s solicitor before she sat down on the bed. Tucking the card into her apron pocket, she took Rummond’s hand from his lap. His skin had gone pallid and cool, and she slid her fingers along to his wrist to check his pulse. It was too quick.

She lifted a hand to cup at his cheek. “Rummond?”

He turned his face toward Belle, but he looked right through her.

“Rum, sweetheart,” she said softly. “Do you need to go to the storage room?”

He shook his head, and it took him a moment more to focus on her. “Dead?” he whispered, as though the idea of it were some absolute impossibility.

She didn’t know what to say. To extend sympathy about that awful man to someone he’d caused so much harm to seemed in some manner wrong.

“Are you all right?” she asked after a few minutes of quiet.

“I don’t know,” Rummond said, looking at his hands in his lap, still and limp.

There were none of his false reassurances about how ‘fine’ he was, no forced smile or nervous fidgeting. After a little while, he lay down and pulled the covers up, curling onto his side. Belle wasn’t certain what might be going on in his head. She wondered what would happen when the shock wore off.

The promised details from the solicitor arrived by messenger near the end of the business day. The funeral was to take place on the second of January. There would be neither wake nor church service - only a graveside service with an Anglican minister, as arranged by Mr. Stutler, himself.

Belle wondered at first over how soon it was. Then she thought how few people there must have been who wanted to say goodbye to such a man. It wasn’t terribly surprising that they were trying to put him in the ground as quickly as possible.

Rummond turned away his lunch and dinner trays, and she worried. He moved, at least, and that was what kept her from going right for Dr. Hopper. He went to the washroom, every once in a while changed positions beneath his blankets. It wasn’t the same as the behavior he exhibited in a downswing. She held onto that and kept a close watch on him.

“I need your help,” he said quietly when she sat next to him during dinner time.

“Anything,” Belle told him without a second thought.

He sat up, and she could see the effort behind the simple action of it. “I’m so sorry to ask it of you - you’ve done too much for me,” he said, shaking his head a little. “Would that I didn’t have to ask.”

She took his hand between hers, wishing that she could bring it to her mouth to kiss his fingers. “What is it?”

“I’d ask Dove, but he’s gone on holiday with the family he works for,” he went on, his voice soft and strained in unmistakable grief. “Out of town over the New Year. Won’t be back ’til the tenth, he said.”

“Rummond, it’s all right,” Belle told him, squeezing his fingers in an attempt to bring his thoughts back to her. He still seemed in a daze. “What do you need?”

“My suit. For the funeral. Dove’s taken it back, already.” He looked up at her, weariness heavy in his eyes. “To my flat, not the house. S’pose that’s good, at least.”

“I don’t mind at all, Rummond. Make me a list of everything you’ll need, and I’ll fetch it all.” She held his gaze for as long as he would, but after a moment, it drifted slowly down to their hands where they tangled hidden between her thigh and his knee.

He nodded, pulling up the weakest of smiles for her, and her fear over his situation uncoiled the smallest degree when he tightened his hand around hers.


	97. Small Discoveries

She’d been glad that her mid-week night shift had fallen on New Year’s Eve. For days, she had been envisioning a sneak off to the storage room with Rummond for a little while near midnight. It would have been her first proper New Year’s kiss.

Only now, Rummond would be… Well, she wasn’t precisely certain. 

She was glad of her schedule falling the way it had for an entirely different reason, now. Belle frowned, finishing up the buttons on the front of her coat before she picked up the telephone behind the front desk. She wasn’t certain how Rummond would take it, once it had time to sink in. Grief was always different. And there were some truly awful things there, but none of that meant he wouldn’t grieve. If what she had seen throughout the day continued, she worried how he would fare going into the funeral and forward. She wrapped an arm around her middle as she waited for Mrs. Potts to answer.

The line picked up. “French residence.”

“Rummond’s father has died,” Belle said, and she squeezed her eyes shut. She’d meant to be a _bit_ more vague than that.

“No! Oh, that poor dear,” Mrs. Potts tutted. “Is he all right?”

“It isn’t- I mean, I’m not sure what it is. I’m not sure whether he’s all right.” She sighed, pulling her lower lip between her teeth, and sat in Nurse Lind’s rolling chair. “I’ll explain better when I get home. Don’t let on to Neal, though. It isn’t something he needs to know, I think. Not yet.”

“Why, of course not. ’Tisn’t my place, anyway.”

Belle wondered whether Neal should know about the death at all. The man was only his grandfather as far as name went. He’d been terrified the once Malcolm and he _had_ come face to face. It would be up to Rummond, though.

“I need the tourer for a little while,” she said, hoping that her father wouldn’t make a fuss when he was told. “There’s the funeral, and Rummond needs some things from his flat.”

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Potts said. “I’ll send Horatio down right away. You let Captain Gold know he’s being thought of.”

Belle placed the handset back on its cradle and went to look in on Rummond before she returned to the foyer to wait by the door for Horatio to arrive. He still lay in his bed, curled on his side. She couldn’t tell anything more without potentially disturbing him.

Ideally her errand wouldn’t take too long. Ruby had agreed to stay a bit late to cover her for a couple of hours, but she hoped to be back within one. She didn’t want to be away from the hospital for so long.

She’d had to reassure Rummond twice more that she didn’t mind, that it wasn’t too much trouble to go and fetch his things, before he fished the keys from his drawer for her and told her which was which. Her hand dropped to her coat pocket, slipping inside to make certain the ring of keys was still there. The old lever lock key, heavy and steel and rusted in spots, went to his flat. The key to his house was smaller, cast of bright brass. It was easy to remember; she had a feeling the residence each belonged to would somewhat match.

The drive to the house he had shared with his ex-wife was shorter than she’d expected. It was less than ten miles from the hospital, in the opposite direction from her own home, and she felt a bit of wonder that he’d been so close all that time.

It was a nice place, of a size expected for the means they’d had, with pink clapboard and dark green trim. The house had a bit of Queen Anne to it - pretty and just slightly ornate, and she could see it being in Rummond’s taste once. There was little distance between neighbors. She saw a curtain move in the house to the left when Horatio opened her door, and she was glad of not having to deal with her own neighbors being so nearby.

The inside was close and homely, obvious that it had belonged to a family, and she resisted the urge to be nosey as well as she could. There was a closed-up smell that made her want to open the windows and air it all. She went to the guest bedroom that Rummond had directed her to, though, and began a careful search for the few items he needed here. She must have had some look on her face when he mentioned the room, because he’d told her that he had moved his things there upon returning home. 

Rummond’s bed was neatly made, a plain blanket on top, sharp corners and tight surface. His clothing hung very precisely in the wardrobe - hangers perfectly spaced, shoes lined up. She smiled, thinking of the way he arranged his bedside table on the ward. Yes, this was a space he’d made for himself. Impersonal as it was, she could feel a warmth in it.

She retrieved a black tie from one of the drawers and a pair of jet cufflinks, plain and dull, from another. They were all he needed from the house, and she should have left right away. But she shut the guest room up behind her and stood in the short, narrow hallway, staring at the master bedroom door. She did attempt to talk herself out of it before reaching for the handle and letting herself in.

The bedroom was overdone with frills and velvet, gaudy without nearing elegance, and done in the same rust orange shade his ex-wife had worn when she left Neal at the hospital. The wardrobe doors and two of its drawers stood open, things spilling out, and the bed had been left with its covers flung back. She couldn’t imagine Rummond being very comfortable there, if it had tended toward such a condition. Belle closed the door again, leaving the spectre of Milah behind it.

She indulged her curiosity once more by looking in on Neal’s room. The nursery, she found when she peeked in, was just as neat and squared away as the guest room. Neal had grown beyond many of the things there, but it was only the thought that perhaps the little belongings might bring up bad memories for him that kept her from taking anything back to him.

Belle left the house to itself, locking up as she went. She placed the tie and cufflinks on the seat next to her and pulled her coat more closely around her as Horatio set off again. The tenement Rummond had given her directions to lay another good twenty minutes out. She had time to get herself warm again before she needed to step back into the cold.

Neighborhoods grew more questionable the farther they drove, until she wondered what on earth had led him to take a flat anywhere near where they ended up. She waited until a pair of men, both peering closely at the automobile as they passed, had gone by before she so much as leaned to look out.

“Why don’t you allow me to accompany you up, miss?” Horatio asked, turning to look into the back seat.

She sat back from the curtain window, nodding slowly. “Yes, I think that might be all right.”

The walk up was a hard one, and even she was a bit winded by the time they reached the correct floor. Horatio had begun to huff and puff. She couldn’t imagine Rummond making those stairs, the condition his leg had been in even then. The driver stood in the hallway while Belle let herself into the flat, having to jiggle the key a little to seat it properly in the lock and make it turn. Her heart sank before she could so much as make herself step inside. She’d expected dust and perhaps a bit of mustiness from being closed up for months, but this… Squalid hardly described it.

It was devoid of anything save the barest of necessities - and not a full account of those. The floor was bare, and if there had ever been any sort of varnish, then it had only been present many years before. The paper on the walls was stained, peeling toward the middle in both directions, and the single window was cracked and uncovered. It was as cold in the flat as it was outside. In one far corner sat a low coal stove, the wall around its pipe frightfully scorched, and a sink that had somehow been made useless by having a full corner broken off. A small, rickety table sat out in the floor from them. In the other corner were a narrow bed and bedside table, and on the bit of wall to her right sat a wardrobe with a door and a half. The room was barely large enough to hold what it did. She had no desire at all to look into the doorless washroom, but there was no avoiding it.

How long had Rummond lived like this? She tried to think whether he’d told her when he had moved to the flat from his house. Had he spent an entire winter there? He had told her once that it had been more than a year since seeing his son. Between the cold and his injury, how had he survived?

Very suddenly, she understood why he’d put himself there. It was a punishment.

She tried to push down the heartache to sort through for what he needed. There were very few things in the wardrobe, and his suit was easily spotted, clean and pressed as it was before being replaced. She wondered if Mr. Dove’s heart had broken as hers did when he saw the void of the place. 

Belle touched the other pieces of Rummond’s clothing that hung there. A button-down and an everyday suit, plain and serviceable. They were by no means tatty, but she got the impression that he hadn’t had anything new for himself in quite a long time. She petted the shoulder of the shirt before lifting her foot to place the toe of her shoe on the edge of the bottom wardrobe shelf, hopping to reach his hat on the upper one.

She saw something at the back of the shelf, and curiosity made her hop again to reach for its handle. It was heavy, giving her a shock as it came down all at once, and she swung it against her legs to keep it from hitting the floor.

A violin case. It was beaten up, the leather rubbed so much in places that it had faded. Taking it over to the table to open it up, she found the violin itself in fine condition. She ran her fingertips along the strings, where his fingers had been, sending a soft, discordant sound into the room. He would play it again, she hoped.

Belle returned the case to the wardrobe, rising up onto her toes to tip it back onto the shelf, pushing it as far back as her fingers would reach. She had to dig through the drawers for a few things, and she took his shoes from the bottom shelf while she was bent down. Going over to the bed, she folded the blanket back to make a spot free of dust to put the things that needed to go with her. 

The otherwise neatly made bed was cluttered with a pile of things in its middle. Among the bits of clothing and other military paraphernalia were his tags, a tin opener, notepad, boot brush, a crushed package of cigarettes. She recognized the contents of a kitbag when she saw them. It had been dumped out in a great hurry. A book lay half hidden beneath a pair of long creased underthings, and she reached for it. The opportunity to see one of Rummond’s own books was a nice one in all this.

 _The Patchwork Girl of Oz._ It looked to have been dragged from pillar to post, beaten up as it was. The cover had warped outward a little, and she looked into the edge to find a pencil crammed inside.

“You poor binding,” she clucked, turning the book over in her hands.

Her eyebrows drew together as she found writing on the back cover, and she had to turn the book in the light to read it. Why in heaven’s name would he scribble on the cover? Her stomach lurched as she recognized the words. 

It was a will, written shakily with a pencil onto the green fabric, among bloody smears and mud. He’d written it when he’d been shot and left in the forest in Germany, she realized. Belle opened the book to find the stub of pencil, and there was blood dried on it, as well. She sat down hard on the bed, its rusted springs screeching, and stared at the objects in her hands. The pages flopped back down all the way to the fly page and she saw a little inscription written in far neater script, _To Neal, from Papa._

She replaced the pencil and closed the book. There was the urge to take it and keep it safe, but she wasn’t certain Rummond would want her to, seeing as its history. Instead, she reached to put it on the bedside table. There was a gun there - a sidearm - too carefully placed to have been dumped there offhandedly. It was loaded. She could see the cylinder from her seat on the bed. A knowing knot tightened behind her ribs. 

She eyed the gun before finally opening the drawer and placing it inside, setting the book on top in its place. She couldn’t look at it.

Belle put her face in her hands. “Rummond, sweetheart…” she breathed to herself.

“Well, you ain’t the wife,” she heard from the open doorway and looked up in surprise.

Horatio stepped between the woman and the room. “Miss?” he asked over his shoulder.

“It’s all right,” she said, then looked to the woman. “You know his ex-wife?”

“Know? Neh.” The woman shrugged, the corners of her mouth turned down. “She came around, months back. Wanted in, but I wouldn’t let her. Didn’t have herself a key. If you ain’t have yourself a key in my building, you ain’t getting in. I assume you’ve got yourself a key?”

“Of course I do. You’re the landlady?” Belle asked.

“I am.” The woman looked around, but she didn’t step inside. “Been wondering whether he might be dead. Could go ahead and hire the place out, if it’s so.”

“It is _not_ so,” Belle told her firmly.

The landlady looked at Belle’s apron. “In hospital, is he?” She tilted her head, giving Belle an appraising look with dark, narrowed eyes. “If he’s got you checking in on it, it’s all still there. I’m many things, but I amn’t a thief.”

“He simply needed some things. But that’s good to know,” Belle said. She was glad that this woman had some modicum of decency, leaving Rummond’s belongings be. “How long until the rent comes due?”

“Oh, few months yet. Himself paid a year before I noticed he’d gone.”

She wondered if he’d paid in such advance to make certain it went through the time of his stay, or for the… ‘inconvenience’ of something he’d intended to do. The latter possibility chilled her through.

“Well, if it comes due before you speak to him again, you contact me.” Belle crossed back to the bed, taking the notepad there and tearing a blank page from it so that she could write her name and address. She gave it to the landlady. “I won’t have his things sold off.”

The woman looked at the paper, raising an eyebrow before she folded it in half and stuck it in her pocket. “I’ll be sure to let you know.”

Belle gathered the last of the things Rummond had asked her to get, and Horatio stepped in to take most of it from her. She sniffled, and he gave her a concerned look.

“Dust,” she said, attempting to explain away her teary eyes and stuffy nose.

“Yes, miss,” Horatio responded kindly. “The room does have quite the layer on it.”

She didn’t know whether Rummond had thought of it, but she was determined to go to Dr. Whale first thing in the morning to ask him to put some sort of hold on Rummond’s bill and tell him that the money was coming. She only hoped that what seemed would happen actually did, in regards to the solicitor and Malcolm Gold’s estate. If it didn’t, well then, she would do something else. She only knew that she would not allow Rummond to be ousted from the hospital while he was still in need of it.

She draped Rummond’s black coat over Horatio’s arm and fixed the sheet and blanket the way it had been. He walked close at her back as they made their way down the flights of stairs again and out onto the street. Belle shivered as she got back into the tourer and decided she would put her arms around Rummond when she got back to the hospital, observed or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _[More information on battlefield wills](http://listverse.com/2014/03/21/10-final-messages-from-people-facing-certain-death/), courtesy of lizandletdie. Scroll down to number four. (TW for other deaths, including suicide, on the rest of the list.)_


	98. Life Came Breaking In

Ruby had already switched off the ward lights when Belle returned. It was half past eleven by the time she’d set Rummond’s things safely aside in the back of the storage room and put her own coat and purse away again. She took a lantern from behind the front desk and went in to relieve Ruby.

He hadn’t moved, Ruby reported. He’d refused his quinine on medication rounds at the end of the night, and Belle was glad when her friend said she hadn’t tried to force it. Rummond had enough to deal with without a fight over something so paltry as a dose of quinine water. She thanked Ruby for staying past her shift and send her home for the night. 

Rather than taking up her usual station in the corner chair, she made a beeline for his bed. He lay with his back to the doors, and he didn’t move as she took her usual seat with him, placing her lantern on the table. The only indication she had that he hadn’t fallen asleep was the slight shift back toward her that he made after she settled. Of course he was still awake.

She rested a hand on his shoulder. “I found everything just where you said.”

“Thank you,” he whispered, turning his head enough that he could see her. “I’m sorry you had to.”

“I didn’t mind at all,” she said, tightening her fingers against him. Fussing over his compulsion to apologize wasn’t terribly helpful, she’d found.

He rolled onto his back, and though it made him feel too opened up, he wanted to be able to look at her properly. He found Belle watching him far too closely, and he wondered what she saw. 

She took a breath, and before she could speak, he interrupted her with a quiet, “I’m all right.”

The look she gave him was nothing if not unconvinced. He looked away from her face, concentrating on the white collar of her dress and the way her apron framed it, following the lines with his eyes. It was easier just now.

“I’ll _be_ all right,” he conceded.

Her hand slipped away from his shoulder, and she ran it down his sleeve until she could place her hand in his. “Anything you need…”

Rummond shook his head. “This,” he said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

She checked her watch, and the thought crossed his mind that perhaps she looked to see how long she’d had to sit with him this time. He was being miserable and he knew it, but there was nothing he could find to make it stop. It wasn’t even tolerably reasonable, feeling the way he did over his father’s death. He wanted to cling to Belle, to feel her in his arms, real and close, but the most he was allowed to hold onto just now was her hand. 

She would stay with him tonight, she decided. She would do her hourly walks, but Rummond’s bed would be the base that she returned to. And the way the day had gone, she thought she might just eat anyone who assumed any right to interfere or remark upon it.

Belle reached over to turn off her lantern, pulling his hand close and pressing it to her stomach. It was midnight. A few seconds past, by the time she leaned in and rested herself against his chest in the cloaking darkness of the ward. She slipped her arm around him, their hands pressed between them where she still held on. It took the leverage of her foot against the tile to push herself far enough that she could brush a kiss over his lips, and she rested her cheek against his afterward. 

She felt Rummond begin to shake, his breaths hitching unevenly beneath her, and she held all the more tightly to him.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

It didn’t seem _real._ His father was gone. Dead. He would never see the man again, and as often as he wished that he wouldn’t, it felt very strange indeed for it to happen in such a way.

Rummond looked at his reflection in the glass of one of the cupboard doors, working to tie his tie with some manner of precision. If he were being honest with himself, he hadn’t been quite convinced that his father would ever die. Malcolm Gold had always existed and always would exist, he’d somehow imagined. The looming shadow of him over everything Rummond had ever done - good or bad, present for it or not - had seemed too pervasive to ever be swept away. 

He’d always harbored a ridiculous, miniscule hope that someday things between them might be addressed and repaired. That he would be able to be a son that his father wanted, and that his father would treat him like something nearer a human being. Now that his father was gone and everything in the world had shifted a few inches to the left, he wasn’t entirely certain what to do.

He left the storage room with his cufflinks in one hand and his hat in the other, otherwise dressed and ready. Belle stood next to the front desk, waiting patiently for him in her own black dress and coat. He missed the presence of color on her.

“Do you want to take Neal?” she asked as she helped him with the cufflinks that his trembling hands were incapable of pushing through the buttonholes. “I can have Mrs. Potts get him ready and we can go by and fetch him, if you want.”

He shook his head. “No. There’s no reason for it. Neal didn’t know him, and I won’t put him through a thing like that. I’m sure I won’t be well-received, anyway.” He could only imagine the things his father had told friends and colleagues, such as they were, about him.

She placed a hand on his shoulder, turning them more toward one another, and reached up to adjust the knot in his tie and the centering of it.

“Thank you,” he murmured. 

Belle smiled a little and patted his chest, and she took her purse from the countertop next to them. She’d put off asking whether he wanted Neal to go to the funeral, and it was a relief when he dismissed the idea of it with an echo of her thoughts on the subject.

She walked next to him out of the hospital and down the front steps, trying to keep an eye on him without looking as though she were. He wasn’t at his steadiest. She was certain he hadn’t slept, and he’d barely eaten. She’d had to do a bit of insistent nudging to get him to eat anything this morning, as well as the evening before. They didn’t know how long he would be out today - graveside service or not, funerals could quickly become unpredictable - and he needed the fortification of _some_ food in his belly. 

The snow that had been so cheerful and white days before had gone ugly and sodden, tamped down and scraped aside. It was dreary out, grey and threatening. She hoped the rain would hold off until they’d returned. The last thing either of them needed was to catch a chill.

The drive out was long and quiet, and he was grateful for Belle holding onto his hand the entire way. The warmth and weight of her touch was an anchor in what had for the last couple of days been an off-kilter world.

It was a cemetery meant for the well-to-do, with grand mausoleums and enormous monuments, and he was entirely unsurprised that his father had decreed that he be buried there. They weren’t the first to arrive. There were a good number of people present, and he didn’t know whether he’d expected more or less. He didn’t recognize a single one of them, but very few of the faces appeared friendly. Eyes turned in his direction as he and Belle made their way down the path. There were stares and whispers, and it set his nerves on edge worse than they’d already been. 

Belle kept her hand at Rummond’s elbow from the moment they left the tourer. She might have pretended that it was to steady him, but she wanted him to keep in mind that she was right there beside him, as well. He wasn’t alone in this, and she didn’t want him to forget that.

She couldn’t be certain how much he heard of the people around them, as morosely fixed on the coffin as he was, but bits of muffled conversation reached her ears easily. She gleaned that Malcolm had been on some manner of rampage over one of the maids refusing him. He’d died in one of the drawing rooms, where he’d been found hours later. The house had gone quiet in the wake of his tantrum, and none of the staff had wanted to go looking for him. It had taken a bit to discover him.

It became rather quickly obvious through her eavesdropping that very few people were there for any sort of respectful honoring of the man. The majority of them had attended to be certain that Malcolm Gold was indeed no longer anything more than a body in a box.

Rummond shifted his weight on his feet a bit, and she glanced over to see him tuck his chin a bit closer to his chest. She felt a twinge of resentment toward the man in the coffin for, even permanently silenced and removed from the world as he was, still causing Rummond harm. It was unfair, every bit of it. Malcolm had caused his son pain from beginning to end, and she felt there should have been something more in the requital of it all than an escape through death.

The service was short, quite perfunctory. There was very little personal about the observations made regarding Malcolm Gold’s life. No one gave a eulogy; it seemed that everything had fallen to the minister. The stooped and elderly clergyman cited Malcolm’s business endeavors, the way he’d purportedly worked himself to the position of having a fine estate and a fortune. As his fairly neutral remarks about Malcolm’s life ran out, he transitioned into a bit of a sermon revolving around greed versus lovingkindness.

There were things that Rummond wanted to say, suddenly. Things he couldn’t find a voice for when he was a child, or before he ran away from his father’s hatefulness and cruelties. The words burned at the tip of his tongue, and he ground his teeth against them.

The service ended and people left immediately. There were no greetings and no consolations. He wondered if that was because Malcolm Gold had been his father or because he was a known coward, and decided it was likely a combination of the two. For once, he found he didn’t mind the snub. Today was not a day on which he could have suffered ungenuine sympathy and snide comments. 

One of the cemetery attendants approached, and Rummond looked up. “Could you leave and come back later? Would that be all right?” he asked.

“Certainly, sir,” the man said. “I’ll send them off for tea and we’ll be back in a while.” He placed the cap held in his hand back on his head and walked away again, pausing for a moment with a group of three younger attendants before they all left.

“Belle?” he asked, looking to her. “Would you go and wait with Horatio? Do you mind it?” he asked.

Belle nodded. “Take as long as you need. There’s no hurry.” She turned, but reached for his arm and gave it a squeeze before she went. 

He waited until she’d gotten back near her father’s automobile, near the great oak tree that grew between the graveside and the main path at the top of the hill. Rummond stared at the ground, where it had been cut into with shovels to make room, and it didn’t take long for words to begin spilling out of him.

“I wish I could’ve been a better son. I wish you had been a better father.” He took a pair of limping steps nearer the coffin, bare of flowers and mementos that might ordinarily have gone into the grave with it. His father’s life hadn’t brought around people who would leave flowers and mementos at the end, and Rummond couldn’t be surprised.

“I didn’t want to hate you. I never _wanted_ to hate you. I loved you for all I was worth, and all you had for me was some loathing I never could understand. And I took it onto myself. I blamed _myself_ for your hate of me. For _decades.”_ He felt a sharp wave of hysteria roiling at the back of his throat. “Did you know all the times I wanted my papa, and all I had was a terror of you?”

He thought of Neal, and he wanted very much to hold his son in that instant, to tell him that he loved him. 

“I don’t understand what happened. I don’t understand you. How could you?” he breathed, grief wringing painfully in his chest. Anger began to swell around it. His fingers tightened around the handle of his cane until the bones ached. 

“How _dare_ you?” Rummond yelped. “I was a _child.”_

Vivid memories of life with his father poured through his mind. Sickening words seethed through bared teeth. Accusations. Beatings. Being forced into corners to cower in fear. The hate in his father’s eyes. 

His breath came too hard with the memories, and burning tears overbrimmed to run down his face. The instinct to pull inward and make himself small squeezed at his shoulders and backbone. It was too much here and now, and he reeled back to take himself away from the hole in the ground and the box suspended over it that held the man who had forced him to live in torment for the entirety of his childhood. He meant to leave it behind, to go back to the gravel path and walk away.

He broke. Rage came out of him before he knew what it was, and he held his cane by the shaft to beat at his father’s coffin with the brass handle of it.

“You bastard! You fucking _bastard!”_ he began through clenched teeth, his voice rapidly taken out of his control. 

“I didn’t deserve it! I didn’t deserve your fists! Or your venom! Or your hate!” he yelled, punctuating his points with loud, cracking blows to the side of the coffin. “I was your _child!_ I didn’t deserve to serve as your punching bag!” 

He cried and beat at the coffin until his voice gave out, his lungs burned and his arms hurt with the reverberation of the strikes, and he sank to the grass next to it with his head bowed, sobbing brokenly.

“Why couldn’t you just be a father? Why couldn’t you _love_ me? I don’t _understand.”_

He didn’t know Belle was there until she was on the ground with him, dropped to her knees and drawing him into her arms. Too wrung out to put up a fight, he allowed himself to be grateful for her not listening to his request to leave him there alone. 

Belle had waited and watched, clutching the front of her coat to hold herself back, aching to be next to him even as she understood that he needed some manner of privacy. She’d withstood it as long as she could, standing next to the tree as he had a one-sided and very much needed rail at his father.

She didn’t know what to say to him - anything that she could tell him would be pale and trite in the face of the particular grief he was feeling. So she simply held onto him, leaning her forehead to touch his temple and letting his sobs shake them both.

“Sweetheart…” she whispered to him, and he felt as though it was only her arms holding the broken bits of him together. 

“I didn’t hate him,” Rummond admitted eventually in a murmur against her shoulder before he sat back enough to see her. “I wish I could. It would be so much easier if I could hate him outright. Easier than _this.”_

His face pulled in what appeared to be a combination of grief and anger, and he ducked his head, turned in the direction of the scuffed coffin. 

Belle shifted off of her knees to sit down on the grass, leaning against his side. She reached up, curling a hand at the back of his neck. As long as he needed to be there, she would stay with him. He’d been by himself far too much, and he certainly didn’t need to be alone next to that man’s grave.


	99. Conflict

Colonel Arthur Fitzroy had been somewhat firmly encouraged to leave four military hospitals before he was admitted to Firefly Hill. It had taken a bit of investigation on Belle and Ruby’s parts to unravel it; reasons for his tossing out hadn’t been listed in his chart or admission forms, and the hospitals that they got in contact with were stubbornly closed-mouthed. At last, a younger nurse happened to pick up a call, and Ruby executed a bit of mild bullying to get an answer out of her.

Whether purposeful or not, it turned out that he tended to upset other patients. Often. It wasn’t talked about a great deal because he came from a highly influential family, which donated sizable chunks of money to the hospitals he’d had turns in residence of. Their donations had a convenient side effect of quieting administrators grateful for the funds.

Colonel Fitzroy tended to have a holiday between hospitals, giving him just enough time to get himself into some manner of trouble before being sent along to another. He’d been arrested for public drunkenness and attacking a police constable, calling the man a ‘filthy Hun’ before exchanging socks in the nose. The judge who heard his case gave him a choice: jail or hospital. Yet again. And theirs had been the lucky choice this go ’round.

“I’m not shell-shocked,” he’d said when Gus brought him onto the ward, loud and strutting. “You think the killing bothered me? Are you daft? I’m not a _coward.”_

That very first morning, the entire ward was treated to declarations on how he enjoyed the war. He spoke about it rather constantly, and to everyone around him. Belle had been running through herself all day as a result of the new patient’s offensiveness despite him not even being in her section, tending to a crying spell and three panics before Gus took him off to his first appointment with Dr. Hopper. The effects of his overactive mouth were being felt through much of the room. 

She’d suggested to Rummond and Lieutenant Hargreaves that they might distract themselves by playing a game or three of cards. Both men had been having difficulty dealing with the Colonel’s remarks regarding the war and how he details precisely what he enjoyed about it. Neither had yet been among the fires she was attempting to put out, and she very much wanted to keep it that way.

Rummond wouldn’t admit as much aloud, but he was glad of the Lieutenant’s company. He could feel his thinned nerves fraying with every word out of the new patient. Fitzroy was in Nurse Lucas’ section of beds, but plenty near enough that he could hear every word. Playing gin was _some_ diversion, and at least he could win more hands than he lost against Hargreaves.

“Poor darling, calls that hand a blighty,” Nurse Boyd clucked sympathetically, attaching herself to Nurse Halloran for a gossip mate mid-afternoon. “Such understatement, when the Germans went and absolutely crippled it. He’s brave, I’ll give him that.”

“I know good and well what he did to that hand,” Lieutenant Hargreaves muttered. He rubbed his own palm against his knee as he looked up from the cards held in the other, giving Nurse Boyd’s back an indignant glare. “‘Poor darling and his blighty,’ my speckled arse. He got that shot through on purpose.”

Rummond gave him a frown. Obnoxious as Fitzroy was, he wasn’t certain that was a deserved accusation. It _was_ a terrible injury. The Colonel had lost the forefinger and thumb on his left hand, nerve damage keeping the remaining three drawn up, curled tightly in on his palm.

“You can’t know that,” he said quietly.

“I damn well can. Thought of doing it, myself.” The Lieutenant threw a card in, exchanging it for another. When Rummond gave him a surprised look, he shook his head. “Rare’s the man who didn’t entertain the idea. Might’ve, if I hadn’t got near decapitated when I did.”

Rummond cast a look back over his shoulder toward their new patient’s bed and wondered.

After Belle had calmed Reyes down, she sought out Ruby and took her aside. “Isn’t there a way you could move him to the far side of your section?” she asked. “His nasty little boasts are causing so much harm.”

“I know,” Ruby said, scowling quickly over at the offending patient. “I’m ready to slip something into his food. He’s had Knight tied up in knots since his arrival. I’d have to uproot someone, though. I don’t have an empty bed at all, now. It would take permission from the head nurse, anyway, and you know how likely that is.”

Nurse Mills would leave him where he was to spite the very men that Fitzroy’s behavior was harming. Belle twisted her mouth in distaste. “What about talking to the other nurses? Figure out whose beds have patients who aren’t so susceptible to being affected by his awful stories?”

“Decide where we could put him and figure it out from there?” Ruby asked, turning and already considering it. 

Belle nodded. “He’ll likely slack off with it, once he’s had a few sessions with Dr. Hopper. But for now…”

“With his history, I’m not so sure of that. I mean, he might, but the effect he’s having just now, I want him out of my section.” The face that Ruby pulled was a bit dark. “Badly.”

With a sympathetic pat, they parted ways - Ruby to have a talk with Nurse Boyd, and Belle to ask Nurse Halloran whether she thought any of her patients could tolerate having Fitzroy as a bunkmate.

Hargreaves was called out for his own therapy appointment, and Rummond was left by himself once more. Bringing out the watch he’d been working on repairing before their card game, he did his best to concentrate on setting his little improvised work area up on the blanket. He was trying desperately not to feel, for reasons that were stacking up today. It was all he had concentration for, and this patient was damaging his patience for even that much.

Rummond had been fighting the feeling of being small and weighted down for days. He was far from even his more recent best, and the new ratbag was making it all the worse. His hands were beginning to shake, and he could no longer manage to so much as keep the head of a screwdriver in a slot, much less get any amount of actual repair work accomplished. 

He dropped the screwdriver and laced his fingers together, sighing and squeezing his hands in frustration. It was counterproductive to try and fiddle with anything like a watch just now. He put away the tools and folded the watch into a handkerchief, placing them back in his drawer.

A visit to the privy, and he would figure on what to try and occupy himself with. Books were no good, he decided as he folded the covers back and took his cane. He might play solitaire. Or go back through the ever-growing stack of drawings that Neal had done for him again. The privy would give him a _few_ moments of quiet out of the day, and perhaps he would be able to string two thoughts together.

Belle sighed, smoothing the front of her hair back. It was her nerves making her itch. God help her, she had never considered doing it to someone, herself, but she had the urge to put Colonel Fitzroy in confinement. She turned away, heading for the doors before she could do or say something to a patient that she might regret, and nearly ran headlong into Mr. Stutler.

“You’re back,” she said in her surprise. Stepping back, she then gave him a frown of disapproval. “You want to speak with Captain Gold again.”

“I do apologize, Nurse French, but it’s necessary that I discuss some business matters with him.” The solicitor removed his hat, holding it at his stomach. “There are things that Captain Gold needs to know following his father’s death.”

“He’s in the washroom. You’ll have to wait,” she said shortly. “I don’t want him upset. The past week has been bad enough.”

Mr. Stutler nodded his agreement. “I will do my best to break gently anything that might be upsetting.”

She gave him a steady look. “Malcolm Gold was not a good man. Just in case you had any illusions about that.”

The solicitor snorted, tucking his hat beneath his arm and following her over to Rummond’s space. “He was reprehensible. But I suppose even the wicked require lawyers for their estates.”

Belle stood at the end of Rummond’s footlocker, and made it clear that she expected him to stand next to her. She would stay right there, this time. Let the others handle the trouble for now - she meant to be next to Rummond for anything that might come up while Mr. Stutler fumbled around.

“There’s nothing like the feeling you get watching that target go down like a sack of rocks,” Fitzroy was saying as Rummond left the privy again. “Best feeling in the world. Better than having a woman under you!” He laughed.

Rummond’s skin crawled.

“Well, aren’t we the living end?” he snarled sarcastically to himself while the Colonel bragged over how he enjoyed killing. 

“‘That target’ was a person,” Knight replied from next to the braggart.

“Barely.” Fitzroy huffed. “I put down three hundred and eighty-three of the Huns before the war was done with. I should know what qualifies as a person and what doesn’t.”

“Might try looking in a mirror and making a judgement,” Jezek snapped over at him. 

Rummond stepped past the Reyes and looked up to find Belle standing at the end of his bunk, his father’s solicitor there next to her. Well, that was one way to make a bad day worse. He stowed his cane and sat down on the edge of the mattress, pulling his covers across his lap. He ran his hand along the edge of the quilt hidden beneath the top blanket, trying to draw some sense of calm from it. 

“I hope you’re feeling well enough to talk a bit more today, Captain?” Mr. Stutler asked, moving closer.

He surrendered to the discomfort of it. “As well as possible, I suppose.”

“If this will be a longer visit, you might want a chair,” Belle suggested, taking a seat next to Rummond with a respectable space between.

“I’m not quite certain how long it will take,” Mr. Stutler admitted. “I suppose it depends on a number of things.”

“Get on with it, then,” Rummond said. He folded his hands on his lap.

The solicitor placed his hat on the bedside table again, lifting his attaché case and opening its latch to pull a sheaf of papers from it. He set it on the floor before beginning. “Now, Captain Gold, the will…”

Rummond breathed a bitter laugh. “He’d never give me a thing unless I begged him for it. There’s no way he would put me in his will.”

“Your father named you in his will not long after he acquired his manor house in the Cotswolds,” Mr. Stutler said after a moment. He handed a few of the papers down to Rummond. “He did- I’m not certain we should discuss this in particular,” the man murmured, his eyes flicking to Belle.

“Out with it,” Rummond said, looking at the paperwork. He wasn’t certain about much of it. It may as well have been Greek, for all he knew of legal jargon.

“In the interests of full disclosure… Your father did remark upon removing you from the documents. However, it was a number of years ago, and I was never directed to do so.”

“He wanted me out.” Rummond’s stomach turned.

“I can’t be certain of that. An offhand mention not followed by action does not demonstrate testamentary intention.” In response to the frown on the face of the man before him, the solicitor clarified, “It doesn’t affect the outcome either way.”

Rummond’s lips thinned and paled. He dropped the papers onto the bunk between himself and Belle, leaning his head into his hands. “He didn’t want me to have any of this.”

Belle reached over, resting a hand at the middle of his back. “Rum-”

“He never mentioned anyone else when we spoke of inheritance,” Mr. Stutler went on.

“Back when I was- what, ten years old? Eleven?” Rummond scoffed softly through his fingers. He sat up straight again, pushing back his hair. “Oh, aye, that’s a comfort. I’m to inherit because he was too lazy, or too drunk, or too distracted by gambling houses to change his will.”

Fitzroy’s vainglorious laughter rang through the ward. “Boy, I put down every Hun I say I did, and all I felt was the recoil of my sidearm.”

Rummond closed his eyes against the sinking feeling and the nausea that passed through him. “What have I inherited, exactly?”

“The estate, including attached properties,” the solicitor said, separating another set of papers from the stack and giving them over. “No tenants. All possessions. And a bank account.”

“Would it be feasible to sell the entire salmagundi?”

“I believe so,” Mr. Stutler replied, unsurprised by the question. “There is always a buyer looking for an extravagant sprawl of a mansion.”

“It’s an idiotic profligacy of a manor,” Rummond muttered, tossing the second batch of paperwork in with the first. “And if someone else wants to be saddled with it, they’re more than welcome to the mess.”

“Are you certain you want rid of it all?” Belle asked.

He turned, his face going from hard and braced to soft and open to her. “All of it,” he said with a nod. “I’ll have Dove go in and retrieve what’s mine. If there’s anything left of it.”

He didn’t want to see the place, the inside or out of it, ever again. He’d seen enough of it when he had to live there.

“Must not have killed many, yourself, if you don’t know the feeling!” Fitzroy jeered from the other side of the support posts. “It’s a shame for a man to go to war and not rack up more enemy kills than that.”

Rummond had taken a breath to snarl across the ward for the plague of a man to shut up, when Jezek bellowed, “For God’s sake, would you _shut your gob!”_

“I’ve a rather important question, Captain Gold,” Mr. Stutler began when the ward had quieted. “Do you wish me to continue on as _your_ solicitor in this matter?”

Rummond hesitated. He didn’t want to cause insult. Mrs. Stutler seemed perfectly nice and more than capable. The problem was the fact that he wanted as little to do with his father’s hires as possible. 

Mr. Stutler seemed to see the uncertainty, and he smiled. He handed the rest of the papers that he held to Belle, then took out his wallet and sorted through. Pulling a business card from it, he passed it across to Rummond. “One of few in the area I would suggest for handling such a significant inheritance. The firm is a family business, and I’ve never heard of them doing anything less than an immaculate job. Everything will be easily and fully transferred to their care, if you so choose. I’ll see to it, myself. Simply let their firm know, as well as my own, when you come to a decision.”

“Thank you,” Rummond responded automatically, taking the card. Emblazoned in crisp black ink across the front was the business and contact information for a Jasper Wock I.

Belle rose when Mr. Stutler took his hat and case again, exchanging polite farewells before he took his leave. She took the papers from the bed, settling them together neatly. “Do you want to look through these now?” she asked.

Rummond shook his head. She placed them in his drawer so that he could go through it all when he was ready. “You can use the telephone at the front desk to call. Whenever you like, if you do want to.”

He only nodded, looking down at the card held between his fingers with eyebrows knit together.

“Rummond?” She squatted down in front of him, and finally his eyes focused on her. “Sweetheart, I need to go back to work. Are you all right?” she asked quietly.

“I’m fine,” he said, bringing up a watery smile for her.

“Are you, really?”

He nodded, slipping the business card between the pages of the book on his table, and rested a hand on top of the one she balanced herself with on his knee. “I am. I’ll make those calls in here presently, all right?”

“All right, then,” she said, patting his knee before she stood again. She wasn’t quite convinced of just how ‘fine’ he was. “I’ll be back a bit later. You know how today’s been.”

Rummond watched her go. She cast a look back over her shoulder at him, and he gave her another strained smile. It took some time, but he bolstered himself toward going to the front desk and making the calls that he needed to.

Nurse Lind pointed him toward the telephone and went back to her filing. He set both business cards on the table next to it and dialed the Wock firm first.

“Rummond Gold,” he said when the secretary who answered asked for his name. “I need to speak face to face with a solicitor as soon as Mr. Wock is available. I’m in hospital, though, and I wondered if it might be possible that he could come by.”

“I’ll certainly ask,” the woman said. “Which hospital?”

“Firefly Hill, east ward.”

“Mm.” She went silent for a few seconds. “There are no immediate openings in the schedule.”

He ran a hand down his face. What use was his father’s godforsaken name if it wouldn’t help with this mess in some manner? “It’s Malcolm Gold’s will and estate that I’m in need of a solicitor’s help with,” he grit out.

The secretary quieted again. “Hold on one moment,” she said at last, and the earpiece on the other end of the line was laid down. It didn’t take long at all for her to return. “We’ve no openings in the next few weeks. However, I’ve been asked to inquire whether it would be all right to schedule a meeting on your visitor’s day.”

“That would be fine.” It was his time with Neal, but the sooner he got the will and estate sorted out, the less anxious he would feel over it. He hoped. A few minutes out of one Sunday wouldn’t hurt.

“I’ll place you on the schedule for the upcoming Sunday, likely in the morning,” she told him, and he could hear the scratching of a pen.

“Thank you.” Rummond said, and he set the earpiece back on its cradle.

The second call was easier and quicker. He only had to let Mr. Stutler know that he’d decided to switch firms after all.

Calls finished and cards in his pocket, he let himself into the storage room just next to the telephone table. He wouldn’t need long, he thought. Only a few minutes to gather himself and come to a bit of a grip on everything. He sat down on one of the shipping boxes and put his cane between his knees, leaning both hands on it.

The estate, the money, _everything_ that had been his father’s and that was now passing on to him had come almost exclusively from bad faith and downright illegal dealings. He was positive that people had been ruined over that fortune. He wanted none of it. What choice did he have, though? Leave the hospital before finishing treatment and risk going mad again? Take his son back to the pathetic little flat that he’d been ashamed for Belle to so much as set foot in? Neal couldn’t live in a place like that. 

He only knew he’d been gone too long when the door clicked open and Belle whispered his name.

“I’m here,” he croaked.

“You made calls?” she asked, sitting on the box next to him.

Rummond studied the swirling filigree in his cane handle. “To both offices. The new solicitor is coming by on Sunday morning, his secretary said.”

“That’s good. Isn’t it?”

“I suppose so. If not good, then necessary.”

Belle’s hand came up to rest at the meeting point of his neck and shoulder, her forearm resting against his shoulderblade and her fingers curling toward his collarbone. The warmth seeped through, forcing tense muscles to loosen a little.

“I want it to be done,” he grumbled. “I don’t want to hear any more about his house, or his assets, or his land holdings.”

“I know. I wish you needn’t deal with any of it.” Her hand squeezed gently, and his head tilted toward her.

“I don’t want any of this,” he said miserably. “Would that I could dump it all in a river somewhere.”

“This money would help you in so many ways. Your hospital bill. There’s Neal, and setting a life up for the two of you when-”

“I know that!” he snipped, then he frowned, sending an apologetic look in her direction. “I’ve thought of that. It’s the only reason I’m _not_ letting the entire thing languish unclaimed.”

Belle’s hand squeezed against his neck again, and she fixed him with a gently stern look when he at last raised his eyes to her. “Rummond, I understand how unpalatable it is. I only met that man the once, and I think I can understand why you’re having trouble with this. I don’t blame you - it isn’t an easy situation to handle. Particularly now. But I need to talk some hard sense with you.”

He nodded, crossing an arm over his chest to lay a hand over hers.

“You can fall apart later, and I’ll be there every moment. You know that. But just now, you need to see to this. You may not want the money, but the fact remains that you _need_ it. It’s necessary to life. Yours and Neal’s, too. I believe you can see that.”

“I know,” he groaned. “I do. I’m not going to refuse it. I can’t afford to.”

She leaned in to press a warm, lingering kiss to his cheek, and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Jezek threatened to ram a fist down Fitzroy’s throat,” she said after a moment.

He puffed a short breath through his nose. “You’re only trying to cheer me up, now.”

“I am,” she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “But he did say so.”

“Well, then. I hope he does. I wouldn’t mind witnessing that.”

“You and the rest of the ward can cheer him on.”

Rummond found a genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and he buried it with a kiss in Belle’s hair.


	100. So Like Fear

He had missed three consecutive sessions with Dr. Hopper. The first on the day that he was notified of his father’s death, and the second for the funeral. The third had fallen when he felt too poorly on the morning of Mr. Stutler’s more recent visit. He had a suspicion that he couldn’t avoid another without the doctor coming in to keep their appointment right there on the ward.

There was no chaperone to keep him company on the walk. After the way the last week had gone, he’d expected Muis to accompany him down to the doctor’s office. The new orderly had only reminded him of his appointment, however, and he had walked down on his own. Dr. Hopper greeted him with a kind smile and allowed him time to unroll the tools and spread the half repaired watch out in front of him before easing him in.

“There’s been a bit of excitement on the ward these last couple of days, hasn’t there?”

“The new patient?” Rummond asked.

“Him, yes.” The doctor said as he got his own things laid out on the desk. The new patient had become quite the issue in sessions with men from the east ward. “He’s been a popular topic all over the hospital.”

Rummond hummed in irritation, one corner of his mouth quirking in agreement with the sound. “It’s been… unpleasant. Obviously the ward isn’t the most peaceful of places, but Colonel Fitzroy has set a new standard.”

“And are you doing all right with the upheaval?” 

“Suppose so. He hasn’t sent me screaming just yet.”

Dr. Hopper nodded. The new patient’s temperament wasn’t much better during appointments, but that wasn’t something that he would say aloud. He was accustomed to some difficult patients. It only took time and work.

“How have you been feeling?” he asked Captain Gold. “Aside from the change in environment.”

“Nothing too beyond the usual,” Rummond muttered by way of a response, though he knew precisely what the doctor was steering him toward. He’d known what the next appointment he kept would likely revolve around.

“You’ve not had anything happen in your life?” Dr. Hopper inquired more pointedly when his patient didn’t continue. “No significant changes that you think might be appropriate to discuss here?”

The doctor wanted him to say it, then. Rummond frowned at the pocketwatch before him, opened up, its insides exposed to be fiddled with, hopefully to be repaired.

Three words. They should have been easily said. He shouldn’t have had to shore himself up for it the way he did. 

“My father died.”

“You’ve been occupied with the emotions and business revolving around that. Would that happen to be why you haven’t been able to attend your sessions here?” the doctor asked.

Rummond shrugged one shoulder, and it remained there for a moment before he relaxed it again. 

Dr. Hopper didn’t push for that particular answer. It was quite all right for a patient to sidestep the occasional appointment. He understood the need for it; doing so provided a measure of control that many of his patients had lost and craved. He suspected that Captain Gold’s avoidance of the last few sessions was just that. Likely along with avoiding a discussion about his father.

He had the broader details. The date, the solicitor’s visit, the Captain’s responses on the ward. Graham always had brought his worries home. The details weren’t what he needed to draw out, though.

“Can you take me through what you felt when you were told?” he asked gently. “If you feel that you can, just now?”

Rummond had to think about it, to backtrack and go over the moment again. “Numb,” he came up with at last. “As if it pushed every feeling out of me. It took a while to begin hurting. Hours. Later in the evening.”

“That’s all very normal,” Dr. Hopper reassured. His patient didn’t look up at him.

“I didn’t cry,” Rummond admitted quietly, his brow drawing. “Not until later in the night.” 

Not until Belle had gone and come back. Not until she’d put her arms around him. The safety of her being there and close had broken something he had been holding together.

“I should’ve, shouldn’t I?” he asked. “Sooner?”

“Everyone grieves differently, Captain. There is no ‘should’ or ‘shouldn’t,’” the doctor told him. 

Rummond straightened a wrinkle from his robe where it lay over his leg. He went quiet. What was he meant to say? If the doctor intended him to volunteer and pour forth with the entirety of the past week, well, they would be sitting in the office for a very long time. He didn’t think he knew _how_ to make so many words at once any longer.

“Can you tell me more, regarding how you responded?” Dr. Hopper asked. “How you felt on the day after you were told, perhaps?”

He felt a bit badly for pushing Captain Gold to tell him so much about something as intimate as grieving over a parent - particularly in the early days of it. He knew the feeling of it, himself, better than he thought the man sitting across from him realized. His patient was in a precarious place, though, and everything mattered.

Frowning, Rummond struggled for a way to describe how it had been. “I felt more,” he said as he realized it. “Too opened up. Like a flayed nerve. Being out of my bunk, it… felt as if I were being screamed at.” His explanation finished in a murmur. It sounded absolutely ludicrous and foolish, and he cringed.

“Is it fair to say that you felt attacked?” the doctor asked, and Rummond nodded. “Can you put a finger on what made you feel that way?”

“I don’t know,” he said with a shake of his head. “Remembering, I suppose. Might be a bit of it. Couldn’t help thinking over old things.”

“Anything in particular?”

Rummond huffed a short breath. “Everything.”

Dr. Hopper made a few notes as his patient quieted again. He waited, hoping that Captain Gold would keep going on his own without needing the words dragged out of him. It did take a few minutes, but he was rewarded with an eventual continuation of their discussion.

“I felt slow. And heavy. As though I might sink through the floor.” Rummond ran the edge of his thumb along the smooth curve of the watch’s side. His heart and stomach and voice felt as if they resided somewhere in the vicinity of his feet. “I still feel it.”

“You’ve described that sensation before - the heaviness,” Dr. Hopper recalled. “During downswings.”

The Captain nodded a bit. “It comes with feeling low. But I don’t feel as poorly as I do when I’m at my worse with-” He gestured toward his head, a scowl passing over his face. “I don’t feel as hopeless as when the- the downswings are eating at me.”

“That makes sense,” the doctor said. “They’re entirely different things, grief and the depression that comes with your shell shock.”

Rummond considered that. “Different sorts of sadness,” he repeated softly to himself, wrapping his mind around it.

Perhaps he didn’t have to fear falling into that hole again. Over this, at least. Not fearing it seemed as if he might be tempting it, though.

“It didn’t seem real, at first. That he’d died.” Rummond hesitated. The doctor would think him all the madder for the way it had taken so long to feel _real._ But Dr. Hopper only regarded him with kind interest.

“It is difficult to imagine a parent no longer being around,” Dr. Hopper offered, encouraging him to go on.

“He’s never not been there. Even after I’d left for the Navy, I could _feel_ him over my shoulder.” It was a difficult thing to explain, and Rummond felt strange attempting to.

“Do you still feel that now?”

“I did. At some weight or another, I’ve felt it all my life.” He set the pocketwatch down. There wouldn’t be any work on it accomplished today. All he did was add layers of smudges to the metal. “After the funeral was done with, I realized it’d gone. I thought I might feel lighter, somehow. It isn’t that, though. That’s not the feel of it. More a conspicuous absence.”

“Is that a good thing? Do you feel better, without that presence over your shoulder?”

“I do,” Rummond said, and the admission gave him a pang of guilt. He wasn’t _glad_ that his father had died. It was undeniable, though, that he felt an odd peace in the knowledge that his father could no longer actively seek to hurt him.

Dr. Hopper looked on for a moment before venturing, “May I ask about the funeral?”

Rummond sighed and rubbed his hands over his face, his skin feeling too hot and too cold at the same time. “Aye, ask away.”

“How did you fare? I can only imagine that it was difficult.”

“Not too. Not the funeral itself. There was no eulogy, little mourning. It was blessedly quick.” It felt terrible to confess it, but he’d been so _relieved_ that there had been no one to stand up in front of the meager attendance to extol some load of virtues made up out of whole cloth. He’d felt like a monster all over again, glad that his father’s funeral was as bare as it was.

“And afterward?” the doctor went on, as though he knew the wound he jabbed for.

The corners of Rummond’s mouth turned down, and he wished that he had something to do with his hands just then that didn’t amount to useless fidgeting. “I had a bit of a tantrum at the cemetery,” he said, ashamed of how he’d behaved. Grief or not, his actions had been ill-mannered and offensive.

“A tantrum?” Dr. Hopper pursued when his patient didn’t offer more.

Rummod ducked his head. “I beat at the coffin with my cane. Screamed at it. As I said, a tantrum.”

“Can you tell me what you said?” Dr. Hopper pushed gently. Captain Gold shook his head, though. “All right. That’s all right. But may I assume it was an airing of grievances?”

“That would be a good assumption.” Rummond’s frown deepened. “Belle saw it all. Every bit of it. She saw and still came back to comfort me.”

The Captain rarely volunteered anything about his time or relationship with Nurse French. It was no small thing, that mention. Dr. Hopper listened with interest. “She has a very kind heart, Nurse French,” he encouraged.

“Indeed she does,” Rummond agreed. “She didn’t act as though it bothered her to see me in such a state.”

“I’m sure that she understands the circumstances you’re in.”

“Are you? Her father loves her. You can see it all over his face when he looks at her. He would never have done to her what my father did to me. I don’t resent her for that,” he quickly assured the doctor. He would never begrudge her the love she’d had in her life. Belle deserved all of the love and kindness she could ever receive. “I’m just not certain she can understand it.”

Dr. Hopper felt a twinge of understanding for his patient’s thoughts. “Captain, humans have the capacity to sympathize without having been in the same situation as another. Nurse French may not know _precisely_ how it feels to have survived growing up with your father, but I feel safe in assuring you that she grasps very well why you feel the way that you do.”

“How?” Rummond asked, forcing his hands away from his mended robe belt. He picked up the pocketwatch’s back and turned it over in his fingers. “How is anyone unharmed in that way meant to understand someone who has been? I can’t imagine what it would have been like to have a father who _didn’t_ treat me such a way.”

He didn’t expect it when it happened, but all at once he could no longer stand it. He couldn’t stand how it roiled inside him, feeling everything that his father had inflicted on him. 

“He hated me,” Rummond grit through his teeth. His eyes stung as tears gathered, and he clenched his jaw so tightly that it ached. How was it that he cried now, when he couldn’t when he’d heard, or during the funeral? _“Hated._ No room for doubt. And _I’m_ stupid for loving him. Even right now, as much as it hurts to remember the things he did to me, the things he said to me, I can’t hate him back. I wish I could hate him as hard as he hated me. I think I wouldn’t hurt so damned much or think it over so often, if I could. As it is, all I have is grief and anger.”

There were therapeutic views that rejected anger in favor of acceptance and forgiveness when it came to the subject of having been harmed by another person, but knowing and having experienced what many of the ‘experts’ in the field only theorized about had given Dr. Hopper quite a different view on such erasure of emotion. Hearing Captain Gold speak of anger was a _good_ thing, as far as he was concerned. Anger meant that his patient was moving away from the feeling that his father’s mistreatment of him was justified.

“The way a parent treats a child, particularly in situations similar to yours, doesn’t always have bearing on the child’s feelings when that parent dies. Your love for him, and your grief over his death, and your anger over what he did to you are all as equally valid as any other emotions.” Stopping, Dr. Hopper waited until his patient looked up at him before going on. Captain Gold at last raised his eyes, and there was some flicker of curiosity in them. Dr. Hopper gentled his voice. “It doesn’t mean that you’re stupid - not in any way. Nor that anything is wrong with you for grieving him. It’s a completely natural feeling, to love one’s parent, even though he harmed you. If you need to be angry toward him, then be angry. Your emotions are not _wrong,_ Captain.”

Rummond’s hand squeezed painfully around the gold watch back, the edges biting into his fingers and palm, and he scrubbed at his cheeks with the heel of his other. Tears fell to follow those he’d wiped away.

“I _am_ angry. I didn’t deserve what he did to me. No child would,” he said, though his voice suddenly held more grief and pain than anger. He’d screamed a bit about that, he remembered. In between swings of his cane. “I didn’t deserve to be a target for _any_ of his cruelty.”

Dr. Hopper was rather proud of his patient for absorbing that lesson from one of their previous sessions and finding a way to believe it, after all he had been through. He wasn’t blindly optimistic enough to assume that Captain Gold had gotten rid of those feelings entirely, but it provided a handhold for the future, for when such thoughts might resurface during troubled times.

“No,” the doctor agreed. “You didn’t. You deserved a parent who cared for you and your needs. The same care and love that every child deserves.”

Rummond realized how he’d been leaning over his lap, curled in on himself. His lungs ached from the effort of measuring his breaths. With effort, he pulled in a breath and opened his hand, and the red groove that the watch back left in it stung.

“What are you grieving?” Dr. Hopper said after giving him a few moments of silence. “Can you express that in words for me?”

Sitting back a little, Rummond gave the doctor an odd look. He wasn’t certain about the question, clear as it seemed to be. “My father…”

“What about your father are you grieving, though?” His patient appeared all the more flummoxed, so he went on. He thought it might help Captain Gold a bit to better understand his grief. “For instance, do you grieve that you’ll not see him again? Or do you grieve the way he felt? Or perhaps that he wasn’t the father that he should have been?”

Rummond had to consider it. He looked out the window, though there wasn’t much to see. It was fogged with frost, heavily encrusted around the edges with ice. Even the tree beyond it was no longer visible. 

“That- that last bit you said. Something like that, I think?” He set the pocketwatch’s back down in the handkerchief next to him, turning the doctor’s words over in his mind again. “I think… I might grieve what could have been. How he _could_ have been a good man. A good father. If he’d wanted to. How he _could have_ loved me.”

Dr. Hopper nodded. “That makes a great deal of sense. Possibilities that were neglected do often find a part in the emotions of those left behind.”

Rummond glanced to the table clock. There were only a few minutes left in his appointment, and he was glad of it. Tired and wrung out, he wanted only to get back to his bunk. He began sorting out the tools and watch, putting everything safely away.

“You’ll have the means to pay for your treatment, now. As long as necessary,” the doctor said as he tied the strings around the tool case.

“I will,” Rummond agreed shortly. He took his cane and stood, crossing to the bookcase.

Dr. Hopper recognized the dodge, but he didn’t let it go. “You have the ability to take care of yourself and your son indefinitely, financially speaking.”

“Belle and I have discussed that at some length.”

“That’s good,” the doctor said, and when Rummond turned to look, the concern on the other man’s face was genuine. 

He didn’t think those conflicting feelings would ever change. “I’m glad I’ll be able to finish out my stay. That’s one decent part of the entire mess,” he said, looking down at the bow he’d tied on the tool case. “But it’s my father’s money what allows it. I’ll have the money to take care of my boy in the manner he deserves. But it’s _my father’s_ money allowing it. All of it.”

He had hoped to never again be forced to touch anything that invoked his father’s memory, and suddenly there was that money - that absolutely bloody necessary money. He’d suffered at his father’s hands for a solid sixteen years, and it had taken him ten more after to have days where he didn’t think of and have reflexes stemming from things his father had done to him.

“Since he’s been back in my life - since the trial, and having to ask him for money in the first place - I’m not certain I’ve had a single day of not thinking about him and what it was like with him all over again. I’d finally managed that. Not having him in my head every second.”

Dr. Hopper smiled, though it was a slightly sad one. “Trust me when I say that you will get back to that place?”

“While it’s his money I’m spending?” Rummond scoffed. “I have a doubt.”

“Why not do something good with some portion of the money?” Dr. Hopper suggested. “Take my thoughts with a grain of salt, but… If it were me? Invest what you can, for the future. Spend on what you need now and for your release from the hospital. And then take some of it and do something good.”

Rummond opened his mouth to remark upon wanting to spend as little as possible of it, but the doctor had too excellent a point to brush off. He smiled a little. “My father would roll in his grave over his money going to charity.”

“Do that, then.” The doctor’s own smile turned a mite conspiratorial. “If that’s something you wish.”

“Where, though?” Rummond asked, and he stepped over to sit on the edge of one of the chairs nearer the desk. “If I’m to give to a charity, I want it to be a- a proper one. One that’s help for something I’d want to help with.”

“I can gather information on charities for you,” Dr. Hopper told him, setting his pen down and closing the folder in front of him. “If I might make a suggestion?”

“Please, suggest,” Rummond urged with a nod.

“The NSPCC, in London,” Dr. Hopper said.

With a curious look, Rummond gave a shake of his head, having no idea what it was.

“The National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children,” the doctor explained. “They help children who have been in situations like yours. Honestly help.”

Captain Gold sat a bit farther back in the chair. “Do you know how weary I am of the things he did affecting so much of the present?” he said, setting the tool case on his lap. “If I could leave it all in the past, close it up in a box. I want to make those memories stop informing everything else in my life.”

“I understand the sentiment,” Dr. Hopper told him after a moment. He knew it, himself.

“I’m sick of hurting,” Rummond said. He lifted a hand, pressing his thumb and middle finger against closed eyes. The darkness deepened before streaks of light jagged behind his eyelids. He stopped and dragged his hand over his face, leaning back. “I’m sick of things making me think of it. I’m sick of not being able to escape it.” There were things he deserved to be haunted by for the rest of his life. The things his father had done to him were not among them. Not anymore.

“It _isn’t_ fair, being affected so terribly by someone else’s decisions. Particularly those made when one was a child, and by someone who was meant to make far _better_ decisions on your behalf.” Dr. Hopper shook his head, observing Captain Gold. “But oftentimes, for someone who has been through what you have, the person harmed must simply try to heal all they possibly can and live with what cannot be healed. It is virtually unavoidable that the situation will inform one’s life in some manner.”

“What sort of counsel is that?” Rummond asked, the question short with frustration and dismay.

The doctor gave him a sympathetic smile. “It doesn’t typically go away, Captain. That level of maltreatment is a trauma. One not unlike what you experienced during the war. And it is often a significant one that can cause a great deal of difficulty throughout one’s life. It’s for very good reason that some people in power are trying now to keep it from happening, and to help children who have gone through it.”

Rummond glanced up at him, remembering how the doctor once told him about laws that had been put in place, and he thought about the organization they’d discussed. He nodded a little. It was a fine idea, indeed.


	101. To Dissipate the Clouds of Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts - _Anonymous said: Oh! I have a Neal prompt! Neal asks around, maybe starting with Mrs Potts. What was your Mama like? What kind of things did she do? Because, bless him, he doesn't know how a Mama is supposed to act. He has so many conflicting representations, Chip's mum, his own, school friends etc. Because someone in his life sure resembles those nice Mamas he's heard about, cuddles, care, giving him baths and reading him stories...only she's not his mother and that confuses him._
> 
> _Anonymous said: Neal is a little blue about his Papa going back to the hospital. Belle can't seem to cheer him up. She decides to try what always seems to work with his Papa. Cover him in butterfly kisses until he surrenders a smile._

Outside was drizzly, Mrs. Lapointe said, so they were all to wait quietly at their desks until they were fetched. Some of Neal’s classmates squirmed and grumbled, but he didn’t mind rainy days so much. Horatio had been driving him since it turned really, properly cold, and Mrs. Potts had a warm treat waiting to go along with his hot cocoa on days like this one. 

The classroom door sat open onto the hallway, so that parents or household staff could come in without causing a stir by knocking. Every once in a while, they could hear frozen rain peck along the windows. He wondered why the rain was water one minute and ice the next, and why it turned back again so quickly, but he didn’t feel like asking. He wrote his question down at the top of a clean page in his pad so that he would remember it tomorrow.

Morraine didn’t mind rainy days, either. She could find something to do no matter what, and today she had decided to turn around in her desk and talk to him. She was always nice, and it was easy to talk to her on days when he felt like talking. Her father had been hurt in the war, too, only in a different way to how his Papa had been hurt. He’d never had to live at a hospital, for one thing. It still felt like she understood a little bit, though.

“Mummy said they would take me to the zoo,” Morraine said, smiling brightly and leaning her arms on the back of her chair. “There’s a new baby elephant, and the zoo is bringing it and its mum out for the first time since it was born!”

“Miss Wedekind, if you’re going to have a conversation, please keep your voice down,” their teacher said.

Morraine’s face went pink at being singled out, and she continued at a whisper. “We’re going on Saturday. You should ask if you can go.”

Neal wasn’t certain whether he wanted to go to the zoo. As much as he would have liked to see the animals, the thought of them living in cages made him sort of sad. 

He smiled and responded simply, “I’ll ask.” He didn’t want to talk about why he probably wouldn’t. She was so excited, and he didn’t want to ruin it for her with anything unhappy.

“Mummy said we would stop at a real tearoom while we’re in London. She told me she would curl my hair…” She stopped, resting her chin on her arm. “What’s wrong?”

Neal’s shook his head. “Nothing.”

“You’re frowny,” she said.

He puffed out a deep breath, leaning his arms and head on his bookbag where it lay in front of him. “What is your mum like?” 

“She’s nice,” Morraine replied. “She does things all the time. She works at the grocer’s in town, and writes lots of things and sends them to the paper. She’s very, very nice. You’ve met her before.”

“I don’t know her like you do, though.” Neal rubbed his boots against one another beneath his desk. “What sorts of things do mums do?” he asked quietly.

She gave him an odd look and a shrug, but she answered all the same. “Um… A mum gives you things she knows you need. Like hugs and kisses. And cuddles. And she’s happy when you’re happy, and she wants to know why you’re crying when you cry. There’s lots of things mums do,” she said thoughtfully. “It’s hard to make a list of them all.”

There was a tap at the doorframe, and Morraine lit up, turning to gather her things. Her mother had arrived to take her home. She waved to him before hurrying away, dodging the parent of another classmate who had come to collect their child. Only a couple of others left before Horatio appeared to take him home.

Horatio held an umbrella over them as they stepped outside again, and tilted it so that Neal stayed dry when he climbed into the back of Belle’s papa’s automobile. The driver closed the door and went back to get behind the wheel, collapsing the umbrella and shaking it before tucking it inside. 

“What is your mum like?” Neal asked just as they were leaving. It didn’t take long to get back to Belle’s house from school, and he didn’t want to waste time.

 _“My_ mum?” Horatio asked in surprise, sending a quick look over his shoulder to his little passenger. “Well… my mum was… She was shaped something like Mrs. Potts.” The driver smiled, slowing their speed a bit. “A Mrs. Potts and a half, I’d dare say. She gave the best of hugs. Always knew when one of us needed it, as well. Didn’t have much, not when I was a boy, but my mum made sure we knew she loved us.”

Neal played with one of his coat buttons as Horatio talked and he took in the short description.

“Is that what you wish to know?” the driver asked.

He nodded, comparing Horatio’s answer to Morraine’s for the rest of the short drive. 

Babette met him at the door. He left his boots on the scraper, and she took his coat and hat and scarf. He hugged his bookbag to him as he headed toward the kitchen. Lumiere stepped into one of the nice parlors, and Neal made a small detour when he saw. He followed the butler until he was noticed.

“Are you not meant to be with Mrs. Potts?” Lumiere asked, looking down at him and raising an eyebrow high.

“I have a question,” Neal said. He tipped his head back to look up.

“Ask, then.”

“What is your mum like?”

The butler blinked, all traces of arrogance disappearing from his face. “Why do you ask?”

Being questioned, Neal’s courage wavered, and he looked away again. He scuffed his toe against the carpet. Catching himself at it, he stopped. “I just want to know.”

Lumiere didn’t answer right away, but he seemed as if he were thinking. When he spoke, his voice had gone a bit softer. _“Ma mère_ passed away before I could remember her. My father’s second wife was a lovely woman who could cook so brilliantly that it would make the King’s chef weep with envy. ...That isn’t what you wish to know, though, it is?” He gave Neal a rare, warm look.

The butler glanced around before he sat at the edge of a delicate chair, and Neal leaned on the arm of it, listening. 

_“Ma belle-mère_ was sweet and kind, always,” Lumiere said softly, smiling down at the little boy. “She loved me as though I were hers. I called her _Maman_ \- I’d never known another. _Mon papa_ passed a few years after they married, and she raised me up on her own.”

Neal went on to the second half of the inquiry he’d begun on the world. “What kinds of mum things does she do?”

“Oh. Hm.” The butler tilted his head, considering. “She read to me. She taught me to read and to write. She tucked me into bed, and took care of me when I fell ill. Bathing, dressing, kisses, hugs - all of the things a _maman_ does, Master Neal,” he said fondly.

Neal sighed, and he stepped back when Lumiere stood up.

“I have work to do, and I believe you should be running along to Mrs. Potts,” Lumiere told him, giving him a small nudge in the direction of the parlor door. 

The kitchen was toasty warm, and Neal’s stomach growled as soon as he stepped in and smelled the beginnings of dinner. He lifted his bookbag onto one stool and climbed up to sit on the one next to it.

“I was beginning to wonder if you’d gone and gotten lost,” Mrs. Potts teased, setting a cup of hot cocoa in front of him. It was quickly followed by a bowl of potato and bacon hash, still steaming.

He wiggled until he was comfortable before picking up his fork and spearing a piece of potato, blowing on it until he was certain that it wouldn’t burn his tongue. Picking up a second bite as he chewed the first, he let it cool on its own.

“I have a question,” he murmured, looking down at the small pile of chopped potatoes.

“Do you, then?” Mrs. Potts said, drying her hands on a towel. She draped it over one of the oven handles to dry and turned to him. “Might as well ask it, then.”

“What is your mum like?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t know. I was hatched from an egg. Hatched just as I am now. Fell out of the nest right off and found myself a job in service.” She gave him a sidelong look, doing her best to keep her lips from twitching in amusement.

Neal looked at her for a moment, wide-eyed in the wake of her tale, before she shook with a chuckle. It took him a few seconds to laugh along with her. 

He didn’t ask again. He didn’t like talking about his Mum, so perhaps Mrs. Potts didn’t like to talk about hers, either. Instead, he went on to his second question. “What does a mum do?”

Mrs. Potts understood why he asked. Of course she did. Poor little lad couldn’t help being unsure of such a thing, the trouble he’d known in what short bit of a life he’d had thus far. “Let’s see, then. A mother knows what her little one needs before they know they need it, doesn’t she? She gives love, and all the safety she can manage. She’s warmth and she’s comfort, and she isn’t always the one you’re born to.”

She leaned her arms on the counter across from him. “A mother loves, dear. That’s what a mother is made of. Good ones, leastways. Love and eyes in the back of her head.” Mrs. Potts reached to give his cheek a gentle pinch, and she winked at him. “Now, go on, eat your hash before it goes cold. You’ve spelling to work on, do you not?”

Neal ate his fill before opening his thin spelling book and turning over the cover of his pad. It took him some fishing to locate a pencil in the bookbag that Belle had given him for Christmas. He looked at the bag and smiled, though he still felt a little confused, and began his schoolwork.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

“Good night,” Belle said, pulling her coat cuff down over the end of her mitten. “Sleep well.”

Rummond reached up, tugging on the end of the scarf she’d yet to wrap about her neck. “Do my best.”

She thought he looked tired out enough that he just might, if the ward would only stay calm. “Nurse Lucas has the night shift. If Colonel Fitzroy starts, tell her and she’ll quiet him down.”

“Or someone will have had enough and strangle him.”

She smothered a wry look. “Or that.”

“Tell my boy that I love him?” Rummond asked. “That I’m thinking of him. Tell him good night and sweet dreams for me?”

Neal had been in his thoughts all day long. Among the little pieces of art that his son had sent along the previous morning was one of the three of them - Neal, Belle, and himself - in her back garden as it would be when spring came around again. The drawing had put a smile on his face. He did wonder whether Belle had seen it, though.

“Of course I will.” She smiled back down at him, lifting a hand to catch his own between her mitten and her coat, and holding it to her for a moment.

“And you have sweet dreams, as well,” he said.

Belle grinned, and she reached to cup his face between her hands. She darted a look around the ward before bending to drop a quick and hopefully unseen kiss on his lips. 

He smiled up at her. Her hands were warm against his cheeks even through the mittens she’d switched over to as the winter days fell to their coldest. Rummond wanted to hold them there, but it was long past time for her to go home. He could see the exhaustion in her eyes.

“Get some sleep, love,” he told her, taking her hand and squeezing it before letting it go.

As usual, Horatio was waiting for her when she stepped outside. Her breath fogged on the air, and she cupped her hands around her mouth as she went carefully down the steps and got into the tourer. Everything had gone icy after the day-long misting of rain. It was more than a bit miserable, as far as weather went, and she was ready to have a hot meal and a hot bath.

It had been a _long_ shift. Wednesday night shift aside, she was certain that it was a combination of the cold and the frustration of their new patient’s continued disruption that had her so utterly bone tired. Lieutenant Hargreaves’ morning had been terrible, thanks to Fitzroy, and then Rummond’s evening had gone sharply downhill just before dinnertime because of the same.

Fitzroy had begun bragging some story about how he’d shot down a pair of German planes and watched them explode in the air like fireworks. He had supplemented with the sound, and before she knew it, Rummond couldn’t breathe. She’d had to have Graham trail him to the storage room to make certain he got there all right. Once Fitzroy had been shushed and the ward had been brought below chaos again, she’d spent a good twenty minutes working to calm Rummond enough that he could return to his bed.

Belle let herself slouch in the seat a bit. The drive was less than ten minutes, but those were a ten minutes that she could close her eyes. Something rolled beneath her leg as she moved, and she found one of Neal’s pencils. It must have fallen from his bag. She slipped it into her apron pocket so that she would remember to return it to him and rested her head against the back of the seat.

Her father said nothing about the fact that she didn’t change from her uniform for dinner; perhaps it was the drowsy look of her that kept him from it, but she was grateful all the same. Neal didn’t chatter, but her father urged him along in a conversation about the weather and what he did at school when he couldn’t go outdoors for recess. She joined in where she could, but for this evening, she was content to let the two of them talk between themselves. It would be good for them both.

After dinner, Neal ran upstairs to get the gyroscope that his Papa gave him, and he sat on the floor of the sitting room to play with it. He held it and pulled the string quickly off the way his Papa had shown him, and set it down to whirl in place. He looked to Belle. She sat on the settee, at the end nearest him and the fireplace, a blanket over her lap and a book in her hands. She didn’t seem to have noticed how he’d watched her since she arrived home from work.

They hadn’t been in the sitting room for very long when he saw her book tilting slowly onto her lap. Her eyes had closed, and he thought she might have fallen asleep. Neal wrapped the string back around his toy and set it on the table before climbing carefully up next to Belle, leaning into her side.

She woke with a soft hum, closing her book and curling an arm around him. “It seems we’ve found bedtime, haven’t we?” she said, smiling down at him.

Neal nodded. He wished she hadn’t woken up so quickly, though. He’d hoped to cuddle there for a little while.

He went upstairs just ahead of her, and she helped him to get ready to go to sleep. He climbed beneath the covers, making sure not to disturb the soft crocodile that now lived at the foot of the bed. 

“Your papa asked me to tell you that he loves you,” she said, sitting down on the bed next to where he lay. “He wanted you to know that he’s thinking of you, and he said to tell you good night and sweet dreams.”

Neal beamed at the message from his father. “In the morning, tell him good morning, and I love him, too.”

“I’ll tell him first thing,” she promised. She reached for the book on his bedside table. “Are you ready for your story?”

Neal shook his head. She was so sleepy that she couldn’t even read her own story tonight. He didn’t want to make her read one to him when she could go to bed, too. “No story tonight,” he said.

“All right, then. If you change your mind, you know where I am.” Belle looked at him curiously, but she set the book down again. “Good night, darling.”

“Night night,” he echoed. He turned onto his side, and she pulled the covers up higher for him.

She brushed his hair away from his forehead, leaning a little. For just a second, he thought she was going to give him a goodnight kiss, but it turned out that she was only reaching to switch off the table lamp.

It was a good bit early to go to bed, and would still be early after taking the time to have a bath, but that was an extra hour or so of sleep. It didn’t hurt to retire early now and then, Belle decided. She left her hair up - the ordeal of washing and drying it was something that she _didn’t_ have time for tonight - and sank up to her chin in a bath as near scalding as she could stand. The tense pinch that seemed to have formed in one solid line from her neck to the small of her back eased almost immediately, and she felt warmed through after only a bit longer than that.

Tonight was the first time since she’d begun reading to Neal that he’d refused a story, and she wondered. It bothered her a bit. Had he really not wanted one? She found that difficult to believe, as much as he’d come to rely on it as a part of his bedtime ritual.

She finished her bath more quickly than usual and pulled on her dressing gown over her nightclothes before going back to check on Neal. Perhaps he was simply growing out of needing a story, but she couldn’t go to bed, herself, until she’d at least looked in on him.

Belle eased open his door and found him having squirmed near the end of the bed, his covers pushed down in a great wrinkle so that his head wasn’t underneath. One of his feet rested at the footboard, and he pushed against it to rock himself. She understood more and more what he’d meant when she had first brought him home with her, when he said that he had taken care of himself. Her hand went to press over the ache in her heart for him. 

“Neal?” she said, stepping inside. “Still awake?”

He pulled his thumb from his mouth, tucking it behind curled fingers. He looked at her as though she’d caught him at something awful.

“I couldn’t go to sleep quite yet, either,” she said. “What do you think of a story in the rocking chair? I think it might help me get sleepy, too.”

Neal nodded, sitting up. She switched the lamp back on and gathered him in her arms, lifting him out of the rumpled sheet and blankets, and took the book along. He’d gotten a little heavier in the months he had been with them, and she could only be glad of it. His healthy dimples and rosy cheeks were well worth having a few more pounds to lift.

Belle settled them in the rocking chair much the way she’d seen Rummond do - catching one foot on the front rung to raise her knee and give Neal a place to lean. She hadn’t quite as much lap as his father did, but they managed. She opened the book to the place they’d left off, propping it up with one hand and the rocking chair arm.

Neal snuggled into her as best he could. She smelled so nice, and she was so soft, and _so_ warm. He thought of all the things that people he’d asked that day had told him. It sounded right. This was what a mother was supposed to feel like, wasn’t it? 

He remembered what Belle called her mum the time he asked, and it tickled on the tip of his tongue. “What was your Mama like?”

Belle stopped reading and looked to him. She smiled, but there was something sad to it, and he wished he hadn’t asked. He didn’t want to made her sad, ever. 

“Her name was Colette,” she said. She didn’t have a great number of memories of her mother by any means. The ones she did have, she treasured. “I don’t remember too much, but I remember the way she smelled. And how it felt when she held me. I remember her putting cream on her hands, and taking mine to rub between them for the little left over.”

“She was nice,” Neal said, his words growing slow and sleepy.

“Oh, she was very nice. She was wonderful,” Belle agreed with a broader smile. She let the book close and placed it between the chair arm and her leg so that she could have both arms around him. 

Neal’s eyes drifted closed, and she continued to rock him for a while longer. When she leaned her head back and shut her own eyes, she had no idea. It took a touch to her arm from Mrs. Potts to make her realize she’d fallen asleep.

“You’ll spoil that boy,” Mrs. Potts murmured low. “Absolutely ruin him. Likely you already have.”

“Nonsense,” Belle whispered back, shaking her head. “But if any child deserves a thorough spoiling, it’s this one.”

Mrs. Potts fussily straightened the covers on Neal’s bed a little, put away his clothes, and she left the room again. (And when Belle would walk in on her rocking the boy to sleep, herself, three nights later, Mrs. Potts would only say in a sweetened voice to keep from waking him, “Don’t you say one word. Not one _single_ bloody word.”)

Belle tried to stand without waking him, but it didn’t quite work. He roused enough to ask, “Where are we going?” 

“Only back to your bed,” she said, rubbing his back to soothe him. 

She set Neal down, and he shifted onto his side again. He tucked his nose behind the blanket as Belle pulled it up high, looking at her over top of it for a few moments as she went back for the book and set it on his table again. The way she smiled at him made him brave.

“May I have a goodnight kiss?” he asked, shy and muffled by covers.

Her smile was brighter when she leaned closer and tugged the blanket down under his chin, and this time she _did_ give him a kiss. A warm one on the cheek. Just what he’d hoped for the first time she had tucked him in tonight.

Belle thought her heart might just burst, and something as simple as that little request had done it. “You can always have a goodnight kiss,” she told him. 

Neal didn’t smile, though. He took on a thoughtful look. Belle, unable to resist drawing a smile from him, took his face gently between her hands and began peppering his cheeks and forehead with kisses until he gave up a sleepy giggle.

“There we go!” she said triumphantly. “That’s what I was looking for.”

He sighed, and this time she took it for a happy sound. They traded goodnight wishes once more, and she turned his lamp off again.

Belle returned to her room, where she found Mrs. Potts sitting in her reading chair.

“You and Neal have become quite enamored of one another,” the older woman said. “It doesn’t worry you, the way you’ve become attached?”

“And what’s the matter with that?” Belle replied, perhaps a little short as she bristled in defense. 

“You’ll be hurt when that child leaves,” Mrs. Potts told her gently. “He isn’t yours.”

A part of her knew that what Mrs. Potts - the person who had essentially raised her after her mother died, and who would know about these things - said was true. But there was a sensation behind her breastbone that cried out at the woman’s words. He _felt_ like hers.

“I would rather chance hurting after he’s gone than to hurt him by denying him a single bit of the affection he deserves,” she said. “He’s had rather enough of being pushed away and love withheld from him.”

Mrs. Potts nodded, hefting herself up from the chair. “As long as you’re aware what you’re doing.” She placed a hand on Belle’s arm, giving it a squeeze before crossing to the door. “Good night, dear.”

Belle tossed her dressing gown over her vanity stool and sat down on the side of her bed. She turned to slide her legs beneath the covers. To her surprise, it was comfortable underneath. Trust Mrs. Potts to put the bedwarmer into her bed at the same time she’d come around to give a bit of a lecture.

She was well aware that Rummond would leave the hospital and take Neal with him. She wasn’t _that_ shortsighted. As much as she wanted him well, she did dread the house being without that little boy. There were possibilities there, between the three of them, though neither she nor Rummond had ever given words to it.

She reached to switch off her lamp, doing her best to ignore the thoughts trampling through her head.


	102. Rising to the Challenge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt - _anonymousnerdgirl said: Do you think it would fit in the story for Rummond to rent his old house out (very cheaply) to Jefferson's family so they can be near the hospital?_

He wasn’t feeling perfectly well - there had been some of what Dr. Hopper called ‘mild’ hallucinations nagging at him, and his appetite wasn’t quite up to par - but he was able to get out of his bunk and wash up for his son’s visit. Small victories were all that mattered on this particular morning.

Lieutenant Hargreaves, by contrast, was having an excellent day, and everyone around him knew it. He’d spent two visitor’s days in a row without his family. The first had been their usual off-week, but the second was skipped when his daughter came down under the weather. His misery and worry had been a painful thing to witness.

Rummond sorted through the tin box of watch bits while he waited, frowning to himself. He missed his son the entire week long, but barring illness, at least he was certain to see Neal every Sunday. Neal was only a few miles from the hospital, at that, and he spoke with someone who cared about his son nearly every day. He could see where he was lucky in that respect. 

He fingered a little gold French _Style Moderne_ pendant. It was without innards or a face, and of such an odd shape that he would need to special order some things if he meant to do with the pretty piece what he wished. 

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, running the pad of his thumb across the slight texture of the pendant’s enamel work. “I’ve that house that’s sitting there and no intention of setting foot in it again. Might rent it out.”

“Oh?” Hargreaves glanced over before turning his attention back to fussing with his bedclothes. He turned the top back and smoothed it.

“Mm. Thought perhaps someone might need a place near the hospital, often as some of the families make trips in.”

The Lieutenant nodded, giving him another distracted look. “A fine idea.”

“Oh, you-” Rummond narrowly resisted rolling his eyes. “I meant _you_ renting it. Or your wife and girl, more like.”

“What?” Hargreaves turned, at last paying fuller attention. 

“They’d be right nearby, be able to visit every week. It’s a mite bigger town here nearby, and there’d be more sewing to take in, if she wanted to keep at it.” Rummond did his best to lay on the temptation, sliding a sidelong look over at the Lieutenant.

Hargreaves stared at him agog for a moment, sitting down on the edge of his bunk. “We couldn’t do that,” he explained quietly. “A house? It would be too much to afford.”

“What do you pay on your flat now?”

“Ten quid a month…”

Rummond shrugged, going back to the bit of gold in his hands. “What do you say to six?”

“You can’t rent a _house_ for that!” Hargreaves sat back, giving him a scandalized look. “You couldn’t rent a half decent _flat_ for that!”

“It’s my house,” he replied with a bit of put-on indignance. “And I’d be glad to have the three of you take up with it. I’d feel far better about that than hiring it out to strangers.”

“You’re certain you want to do this?” the Lieutenant asked.

“Fully furnished,” Rummond said by way of an answer. “There isn’t much I want out of the place. I can have someone go and move what little that is, and your wife can have it by Saturday, if she likes.”

He would ask Dove to go in and pack up his and Neal’s things. The rest of the more personal belongings could be carted to some nearby almshouse. It would be a relief to have the house out of his thoughts, and if someone else could benefit from it, all the better.

Hargreaves shook his head. “Captain Gold…”

“Do you want it, then?”

“Yes! Yes, I- I’ll need to talk it over with Alice, of course-”

“Of course.” The Lieutenant’s wife was a sharp woman. She would see the sense in it.

“Thank you,” Hargreaves said quietly. “You don’t know what this means.”

 _That would be why I’m doing it,_ Rummond thought as he waved the boy’s words off. He closed the box and set it aside. “I daresay I do.”

Neal made his usual entrance, full of chatter and sunshine as he hopped into his Papa’s lap, and Belle followed not too many minutes later. She greeted him with a smile that took away the morning chill of the ward, setting a cup of tea on his bedside table and touching his cheek with a warm hand before she set down the picnic basket and placed herself next to them.

The earliest visitors were always the same. The priest and nuns came around for their regular rounds, and Lieutenant Hargreaves’ family were in soon after. Nurse Jezek and Guin Lapointe came along for their respective husbands. It was the first small influx of people on the ward - those who arrived just after daybreak.

Rummond knew when Lieutenant Hargreaves told his wife about the house. Mrs. Hargreaves turned on her chair to give him a stare not unlike the one her husband had given him. She rose and marched across the space between their bunks, and before he quite had time to wonder why or react, she’d thrown her arms around his neck.

“You are a dear man, Captain,” she said, her voice strained with emotion.

“N- nonsense,” he stammered awkwardly, his face burning by the time she stepped back again. “A house can’t sit there empty. It’d fall down for lack of care. It only makes sense.”

“Regardless,” she said, smiling down at him. _“Thank you.”_

“It’s nothing.” His hand fluttered away the thanks. “You’ll have the key by Saturday. Perhaps sooner.”

Mrs. Hargreaves went back to her chair, saying to her husband, “We’ll have to begin packing as soon as we get home.”

Belle gave him a curious look. “What’s that all about?” she asked, though there was a smile curling at her lips that told him she’d got it half figured.

He shrugged a shoulder, busying himself with an attempt at taming one of Neal’s cowlicks as he told her of his idea and the talk he’d had with the young Lieutenant.

“I’m afraid I must agree with Mrs. Hargreaves,” Belle said, reaching across to take one of his hands. “You _are_ a dear man.”

He shifted his attention to the way her fingers curled in with his, ears feeling warm all over again at the way she looked at him. “It only makes sense,” he repeated.

Neal wiggled his way between the two of them, holding a small stack of drawings he’d taken from the basket on his father’s footlocker. “Papa, I want to show you,” he said, dropping onto his bottom with a bounce. “The fox that lives outside Belle’s house, you remember? Mrs. Potts says it’s going to have babies in the spring!”

“Is it, now?” Rummond grinned over at Belle before he turned his full attention to his son.

The ward door opened, and Belle looked up. Ruby came in, pushing the door slowly with her shoulder, and Mrs. Lapointe accepted two cups of coffee from her. It was her usual request on the way in, so that she and her husband had something to share in the early morning. Mrs. Lapointe returned to the far end of the ward and set one cup down on her husband’s table before very carefully handing the other to him, taking his outstretched hand to guide it to the cup handle. 

He said something that Belle couldn’t hear, but his wife smiled in response. His free hand, he lifted to touch her face, stroking across her lips and then down her nose with his thumb, as if he wanted to feel the expression of her smile.

Captain Lapointe and his men had gone into an area contaminated by mustard gas near the end of the war. Belle had heard the account he gave Ruby of it just after he’d been admitted. Many of those with him hadn’t survived the experience, but he had been at the rear of the group when effects began making themselves known. He’d turned up with gas blindness as a result. The blisters had healed eventually, but he had been left blind and heavily scarred around the eyes, as well as suffering trauma from the incident. His wife had taken care of him at home for as long as she could manage.

Movement from a bit to the left caught Belle’s eye, and she frowned as she saw Fitzroy seem to make his way in Captain Lapointe’s direction. Mrs. Lapointe sat on the bedside, but she had leaned far over to reach for something on the bottom shelf of the bedside table. 

“Oh, you pill. You wouldn’t…” Belle muttered, seeing the look on Fitzroy’s face. She waved to Graham where he stood nearer that end of the room, drawing his attention, and gestured frantically to Lapointe and his wife.

“Belle?” Rummond asked, turning to look behind him just as Fitzroy grabbed a handful of Mrs. Lapointe’s rear. He gaped and looked back to Belle, who scowled furiously. 

Mrs. Lapointe jerked upright, the motion alerting her husband. “Guin? Are you all right?”

“Just fine,” she said, glaring at Colonel Fitzroy. She stared him down, and the arse had the gall to smirk at her, standing his ground just long enough to prove some point before he turned to strut away.

Graham, not quite having made it in time to put a stop to Fitzroy’s obscene behavior, wrapped a steel hand around the Colonel’s arm and physically returned him to the other side of the ward. Belle could see Graham giving him a searing scolding, though she couldn’t hear until they’d neared his bed again. Half the ward, including herself and Rummond, looked on as Graham forcibly sat Fitzroy down and leaned to bring his face near the Colonel’s with a sharp look.

“If you leave this bed for anything more than the washroom the rest of the day, you’ll wish you’d chosen another hospital,” Graham said with as much menace as she’d ever heard from her friend.

She had never once known Graham to threaten a patient, but they’d never had one lay a hand on a woman on the ward in such a crude way, either. Not on _their_ ward. Everyone seemed to be reaching the end of their rope over Fitzroy’s behavior.

Belle traded an uneasy look with Rummond. She looked back to Mrs. Lapointe, who had moved to sit higher on the bed, right against her husband’s side.

“Belle?” Neal said, reaching to tug at her skirt. “Belle?”

“Yes, darling?” she answered as she turned to the pair she’d hoped to give her attention to all day.

“What are fox babies called? I don’t remember,” Neal whispered aside to her.

She could hear Astrid making a cheerful fuss over the pinwheel sandwiches that Ruby’s Granny had sent along with her for lunch. Astrid continued staying on with the Lucases until Jezek could be discharged, and from the way Ruby talked, the young nurse was a joy to have around. Jezek had a little cottage somewhere out near Stroud, but no one involved much liked the idea of her staying there alone in the meantime. 

Despite Graham’s stern warning to stay in his bed, Fitzroy of course did nothing of the sort. They had a good ten minutes of something like peace before he set off again.

“I heard the two of you married right here at the hospital a few weeks ago,” Fitzroy said, propping a knee against Knight’s footlocker. “Right out back, there. Is that right?”

“That’s right!” Astrid chirped. “It was lovely. We had so many friends take part!”

Fitzroy gave the pair a curl-lipped smirk. “Don’t suppose you’ve had the opportunity to consummate it yet, eh? Not much privacy around here.”

“I’m warning you once,” Jezek said, his expression darkening. “Shut your gob, Fitzroy.”

“Those small ones are the sweetest, aren’t they? You can pick her up, put her just where you want her.” He gave an exaggerated wink. 

Astrid, who had taken the Colonel’s interest for kindness, frowned. Her posture shrank back a bit. “What?”

“That’s it.” Jezek threw his blanket over and hauled himself off the bed the opposite site of Astrid.

“And what’ll you do about it, _dwarf?”_ Fitzroy laughed as he slung the jibe at the short and stocky bombardier.

“Ever had ‘dwarf’ hands around your neck?”

“Leroy, no!” Astrid cried, leaning to reach for the back of his hospital gown as he stomped toward Fitzroy.

Belle clapped a hand over half her face. “It’s a wonder no one has killed that man yet.”

“The day isn’t over,” Rummond grumbled.

Neal was explaining to his Papa that fox babies were called kits, and Rummond covered one of his son’s ears with his hand, pulling the boy’s head against his robe to cover the other so that he didn’t hear the indelicate words beginning to surface. Rummond watched as the two men tied up in a scuffle, pleased when Jezek got in one good, solid punch before Humbert and Muis separated them.

“Deserved that,” Rummond whispered low enough that Neal hadn’t a chance of hearing. 

Neal began to squirm, trying to duck his head out from under his Papa’s hand.

“Tell me more about your drawings?” Rummond said, letting him go now the fight had been settled.

Belle’s eyebrows rose a little. She didn’t say so aloud, but she couldn’t help feeling somewhat in agreement. Fitzroy’s nasty behavior had been certain to land him in a bind sooner rather than later.

She knew that her section of beds was assigned the more sensitive and badly-off patients because she could handle them. Bell had experience with those who were particularly touch and go, mentally speaking. Ruby’s section was only a step on the ladder more stable than her own, and the patients were, in general, more resilient the farther back into the ward they were assigned. Arthur Fitzroy was not sensitive. He was a horse’s behind, and he didn’t belong anywhere near her or Ruby’s part of the ward. She was quite certain that Nurse Mills had assigned the man where she did because the head nurse knew he would make a mess of the more sensitive patients in both sections.

She watched as Astrid wrapped her hands around Jezek’s arm, urging him back to his bed, and her patience with the entire situation ran out.

Belle patted Rummond’s knee. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. There’s something I need to do.”

He nodded, curling an arm around Neal as she stood, and she went to have a talk with Ruby.

It didn’t take long at all for she and Ruby to cook something up between the two of them. She beckoned Graham over and asked if he could very quietly and quickly find her a hacksaw.

Graham gave her a suspicious smile, but said, “I can,” before he hurried off. Not five minutes later he brought the saw back to her folded into a towel.

When Fitzroy was taken out to have his nose looked after, and Ruby had sent Nurse Boyd off the ward after a full menu for lunch and dinner, they set to work. Kneeling down next to the hospital bed belonging to Fitzroy, leaning low, Belle began pulling the saw back and forth.

Nurse Halloran came over to investigate the sound. It didn’t take long for her shock to disappear in favor of worry. “What if someone tells Nurse Mills what you’ve done?”

Pausing, Belle looked around at the men, all of whom were either very studiously ignoring the sounds of her sawing or looking on with interest. She shook her head. “You know, I don’t believe anyone is going to tell.”

“Shush,” Ruby said, waving Ariel off. “Go and be the lookout.”

“Lookout?” Ariel asked, allowing herself to be guided a few steps away.

“Stand outside the doors and watch for anyone coming into the hallway. The instant anyone does, you come in and tell us, all right?” Ruby followed her a bit as she headed toward the door, making certain that she was going before turning back to Belle. “You’d better hurry.”

“Nearly half done,” Belle said, finishing up where she was and crawling the few feet up to the head of the bed, moving the table so that she could reach.

The saw’s metal was of better quality than that of the hospital bed, making it shorter work than she’d expected. She brushed up the metal shavings from the notches sawn into two of the bed’s legs, scooping it into a piece of paper, and Ruby took it to the rubbish bin at the front of the room. Belle returned to Rummond and took her seat once more, enjoying the grin he gave her.

Fitzroy returned with bits of cotton gauze stuffed into his nose, shooting a glare Jezek’s way as he passed. In his huff, he sat down hard. It was a gesture met with a resounding _clang_ as the bed’s legs, having been weakened just enough that they buckled when he flopped himself onto it, hit the floor. He sprawled, arms spread to hold onto the far side of the mattress.

Belle held her breath. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected the ward’s reaction to be, but silence hadn’t been it. 

“Oh! Oh dear, what’s happened?” Ruby said, and Belle cringed at her friend’s over the top delivery of sympathy. She went as far as helping Fitzroy to his feet. “I’m so sorry, Colonel. These beds, they’re so old. One never knows when some manner of failure will happen to the metal. Are you all right, there?”

Fitzroy looked around in a combination of confusion and anger, and Belle expected him to fly into a rage. She wasn’t certain whether it was the lack of laughter or Ruby’s attention that staved off any additional reaction.

There were no free beds in either Ruby’s or Belle’s sections - thank heavens - and they couldn’t move anyone else to the damaged bed in trade. Colonel Fitzroy would be forced to move farther back in the room. Nurse Mills wasn’t present, having taken this Sunday off to go and visit her sister. There would have to be explanations in the morning, but that gave them nearly a full day to settle Fitzroy into the back left side of the ward. It was Nurse Boyd’s section, but she had a couple of empty beds, and she seemed to like the Colonel, anyway. Belle only hoped that he might cause less trouble with the move.

The ward filled with visitors before long, churches in the area letting out and family and friends trickling in over the course of the morning. Lunch neared, and Belle leaned to bring their basket over.

Rummond had been eating a little better. She’d worried so much that he would stop eating again and lose all of the weight and strength he had gained. His appetite didn’t seem to have disappeared for long, though, and it was better each day. In the awful mess that had fallen on him since Christmas, it was something to be thankful for.

“I’ll be glad when spring comes around again,” she said as she pried open a tin of dried dates and apricots to set on the blanket where they could all reach. “I’m looking forward to fresh fruit.”

“I do miss strawberries,” Rummond admitted.

“Well, in the meantime, we’ve these, and a cherry and almond cake that Mrs. Potts went heavy on the icing with.” She began placing walnut sandwiches next to the small heap of chicken salad already on the plate she was preparing for Neal, handing it to him first to keep him out of the basket and said dessert.

Neal ate as heartily as usual, and Rummond’s appetite was far from disappointing. She ended up giving him the bit the chicken salad left in its little container after he’d finished his plate, happy to see him make it disappear.

They’d only just finished eating lunch and Belle was near the end of tidying up when a stranger stepped onto the ward. The woman - tall, wearing a sleek little trilby and a black herringbone Ulster fitted to her frame - was stopped by Ariel before being pointed over in their direction.

Belle nudged Rummond’s knee, and he quickly wiped his mouth before she could take his napkin away from him and tuck it into the basket. The woman stopped at the stack of chairs near the door and took one, catching her hand beneath the top rail and carrying it over with seeming effortlessness. 

The woman approaching them had a sharp jaw, small eyes, and a broad snub nose, and the effect wasn’t unflattering. She had a bobbed shock of hair such a pale blonde that it very nearly gleamed white from beneath her hat and there was a cavalier manner about her, evident in the way she set the chair down and spun it the right way around before she removed her hat.

“Jasper Wock the Second. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Captain Gold,” she said, extending her hand along with her immediate introduction. 

Without hesitation, he took her hand to shake, though he thought he might have gaped a bit. “Captain Rummond Gold. I’m sorry. Your name- I hadn’t expected-”

Ms. Wock set her hat carefully on an empty corner of the bedside table and leaned to place her slender attaché case down beside the chair. She flicked two buttons from their holes with long nails and swung her coat off, laying it over the back of the chair. She revealed a long, slim black skirt and waistcoat over a white button-down, a wide black ascot at her throat with an amethyst pin in the center to puff it. 

“Fair mistake. My father expected a boy, as well, but he wasn’t disappointed with what he got.” She smirked as she sat down, asking with a challenging edge to her words, “Will that be a problem for you?”

“Not at all,” Rummond said. 

He looked from Ms. Wock to Neal as his son shifted around to sit behind him. Neal sat so that he could peer around at the stranger, ducking back as she leaned similarly to give him a smile.

Ms. Wock sat with one leg crossed over the other, taking out a notepad to balance on her knee - entirely unladylike - and Belle was amused. Even in this day and age, she’d seen few enough women willing to flout the rules of femininity the way this Ms. Wock did. Add to that, she’d never before heard a woman’s name seconded to her father’s. She appreciated the turning of that convention on its head. Belle wasn’t certain what to make of her at first, but found herself liking the solicitor almost despite herself.

“Shall we get right to it?” Ms. Wock asked, flipping a page over. “Mr. Stutler sent over all of his firm’s files on Malcolm Gold. The will is in order. And I see by the more recent notes he supplied for us that you’ve expressed a desire to sell everything?”

“Sell it all,” Rummond confirmed. “Every asset that can be liquidated. _Every_ one.”

She nodded. “I can do that. Easily. Right away?”

“As soon as possible, aye.”

“I’ll make listings and put out word in the morning, then.” Ms. Wock leaned to take some papers from her case, handing them across to Rummond. “A list of Malcolm Gold’s assets. A formality,” she said, “but necessary for business purposes.”

Rummond frowned, but he read down the pages of information. He happened across a particular entry. “I’m reminded… I want to dissolve my father’s antiquities and estate acquisition ‘business.’” He said it with an edge of bitterness. It hadn’t been a legitimate business since he was a child, if even then. “I don’t want it sold whole. I want it gone.”

“I can do that. Of course I can. I can raze it right down to the ground for you.” Her smile was a touch predatory at that, her words slow and pleased.

Rummond was willing to let her enjoy the melting down of his father’s assets all she liked. It was possible _someone_ should enjoy it, after all the damage that Malcolm Gold had caused people over the last forty-some-odd years.

“How long will it take, these sales and dismantling?” Belle asked.

Ms. Wock glanced between them, a knowing look that she didn’t attempt to hide in the least developing on her face. Whatever she saw made her answer Belle without reservation. “This market? Mm… month or so.”

“That isn’t bad,” Belle said, looking to Rummond.

He nodded, unsure how much time it _should_ take, and accepting her judgement. “What about my own accounts?” he asked the solicitor. “Can there be anything done about it?”

She reached for something else, bringing out a thin folder to pass to him. “I did have a look at that. The fraudulent suit freezing your accounts falls apart, with Malcolm dead. Your money is your own again.”

“How long do you think it’ll take to sort it out?” Rummond asked.

“Oh, I can begin on that as soon as the banks open in the morning, likely have it done by close of business.” Ms. Wock grinned again, cocksure. “There are arms I can apply a bit of torsion to.”

She’d an interesting way of putting it, but he sighed with the relief of that knowledge. It wasn’t as though he had anything near a fortune, but there was enough there to keep him from scraping bottom or being tossed out of the hospital in the time before his father’s estate could be disposed of.

“I can consolidate all of the money headed your way into a single account, if you like,” the solicitor told him. “It would be most convenient. Though, it is your decision.”

Rummond thought it over for a few moments, considering the good and the bad of it. “No,” he decided. “But I do want my own account moved to a bank less likely to allow something like what my father did. And you might move my father’s money to the same bank, separate account?”

“I can certainly do that,” Ms. Wock said, looking down to make notes regarding his instructions. “Your new accounts should be available by Tuesday morning. I’ll have paperwork for you to sign and information and such messengered over as soon as I have everything arranged.”

They slogged through a bit more business before Ms. Wock put her things away. “I believe that ties everything up, unless you’ve something more, Captain Gold?”

“That’s all that comes to mind just now.” He shook his head slowly, trying to think whether there was anything else.

“If you happen to think of anything-”

“I have your firm’s card.”

“Hm.” She smiled toothily as she stood, slipping into her coat. “You have my father’s card.” She pulled another from her waistcoat pocket and extended it to him held between her index and middle fingers.

It held the same information, though more stylized, and her name was printed in bolder lettering - Jasper Wock II. “Thank you,” Rummond said, and she gave him a nod.

The solicitor buttoned her coat, tipped her hat back onto her head and took her attaché case, and carried her chair back where it came from as she left.

“Well, she’s something of a character, isn’t she?” Belle said, leaning to look behind Rummond and smiling at Neal. She looked to his father. “And extremely helpful. She didn’t express a doubt over anything you asked.”

“She was,” he agreed, placing the card in his bedside table drawer.

“So you’re satisfied with your new solicitor?”

“I am. She sounds as though she knows what she’s talking about.”

“Perhaps you’re more comfortable with her because you hired her yourself.”

Rummond’s smile was a little lopsided as he looked over to her. “Possibly.”

“You’re all right with how everything went?” Belle asked. He didn’t seem quite content, but anything dealing with his father’s estate continued to unsettle him. She rested her hand next to his on the bed, overlapping their fingers.

“It went just as well as I could expect.” Rummond looked down at her hand, moving his own so that his forefinger slipped between her ring and small fingers. The contact was a comfort that he needed, and he longed for more of it. He felt his son lean against his back. “Who knows - perhaps by the time Neal or his children need the money, its origin will have been forgotten. I have to live knowing where it came from. He shouldn’t have to.”


	103. Kicking to the Top

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt - _rumbelleluv said: Hi. I know it isn't Tuesday or anything but I thought of a prompt for BtFtB last night! I was wondering if we could get a "chipped cup" moment at some point? :) Like either Rummond or Belle drops it, doesn't matter which one, and it turns into a fluffy/special moment between them somehow? (I know I'm bad at this and vague but just thought I'd ask xD. I'm a sucker for those moments.) Thanks :)_

Rummond was in the middle of a string of bad days. He felt as though he were slogging through mud somewhere up around his chest, but he _was_ slogging, and according to Dr. Hopper, that was a good thing. Compared to sinking and choking on it, he supposed that it was.

His week had consisted of a series of gradually more tangible hallucinations that worsened the longer they went on. Nightmares seemed to pick up where the waking world left off, taking his hallucinations and running with them, making him dread - and thus avoid - sleep. Together they felt like a great hand poising to dig in its claws. 

He did his best to hide all that he could of it from Belle. It would pass, he told himself, and it was ridiculous to go bothering her with it when it would only disappear. She’d been keeping a close watch on him, though, and he knew that she’d figured _something_ out. She knew him far too well now to not catch such things.

He’d told Dr. Hopper earlier in the week, when he was still having better luck in the area of day-to-day functioning. Not the entirety of the hallucinations and nightmares, but the fact of them surfacing. 

“You may well always have them to some degree,” the doctor had reiterated a bit of guidance given before. “Particularly during stressful times.

Frustrated, Rummond had tossed down the jeweler’s catalog that Dr. Hopper had brought along to him. “Just how many ills _do_ you attribute to stress?”

“Only those which are caused by it.” The doctor had given him a sympathetic smile. “Stress causes far more psychiatric difficulties than most people realize, Captain. Physical, as well.”

“I suppose it isn’t something you think about a great deal unless it’s gnawing at you,” Rummond had grumbled.

He’d lain back down following the session. His hallucinations had grown worse soon after, and he’d scarcely left it since. He missed his appointment with the doctor this morning, as well, seeing no particular point in it. Muis had come by to remind him. Much as he’d felt like simply disregarding the orderly and pretending to be asleep, he gave the man a message - asked him to tell Dr. Hopper that he didn’t feel well enough. Rummond had half expected the doctor to come down to the ward, as many appointments as he’d recently missed, but Muis only brought back the message that Dr. Hopper hoped to see him on Friday.

Belle, as always, sat with Rummond in her free moments. She worried - she couldn’t help worrying when he felt badly. He was contending with something terrible, she could tell, but there was a fight in him. He might have put himself to bed, but he was still _there,_ and not withdrawn so profoundly as she’d witnessed when he’d gone absent from himself during previous downswings.

She found herself once more needing to encourage him to eat. She saw to her morning tasks as quickly as she could so that she had the time to sit with him through breakfast, and she sat with him during lunchtime, as usual. He had taken to keeping his dinner tray until after she’d clocked out, and she nudged him through around half of his meal before he couldn’t take more. But he kept everything down. That was what mattered. 

“Do you feel like sitting up, having some lunch?” she asked, taking the tray from the top of his footlocker, where Quinn had left it.

Rummond gave a short hum, but he shifted in his covers, pushing himself up with the arm beneath him and sitting so that he faced her. He held his quilt and topmost blanket over one shoulder.

“Are you warm enough?” she asked, setting the tray in front of him as she sat down.

He looked up at her as though the question had surprised him. One corner of his mouth tugged the slightest bit, and though the smile didn’t catch on his lips, she saw affection in his eyes. He nodded. “Plenty warm.”

“Good,” Belle said. 

She dared a touch to his face, her fingers stroking against two days’ worth of scruff on his cheek. Most of the ward was distracted with their own food and the head nurse took lunch in her office. She could afford a second’s indiscretion.

He hadn’t been sleeping. She knew that much. He seemed to catch moments of sleep here and there, only to startle himself out of it. Shadows hollowed his eyes, and for days she hadn’t cast a look in his direction that he didn’t appear exhausted. 

She prompted him through half of his bowl of soup and the entirety of the slice of bread that had come with it. He ate slowly as she gave him small details of Neal’s previous evening and his day at school. She told him how his son’s reading had improved. Neal had been given a paragraph to read to his class, and according to the note that his teacher send home with him, he’d gotten through it without asking after a single word.

“Tell him how proud I am of him?” Rummond asked.

“I’ll tell him,” she said, smiling. “I believe he knows, but I’ll be sure to tell him.”

He moved his tray carefully off his lap. “I’d like to hear him read sometime. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard him read anything at length.”

“Well, I’ll just have him choose something to bring along on Sunday, then.” Belle patted his knee, leaving her hand there for a moment. 

He closed his eyes, taking a breath that seemed as if he couldn’t quite get enough air, and he looked so _weary._

“Rummond, why don’t you try to get some sleep?” she suggested gently. “It’s quiet, and I’ll be nearby for a good while yet.”

“Do I look that awful?” He attempted a smile again as he opened his eyes.

Belle gave his knee a little squeeze. “You look that sleepy.”

“I might give it a try.”

She took his tray to place back on his footlocker to be picked up when Quinn came back around and reluctantly excused herself. There was work to do, and as much as she would have liked to keep an eye on Rummond from right there at the edge of his bed, she had things that she needed to see to.

She went to check down one side and up the other of her section, and when she returned to the front, Rummond was lying down again. His eyes were closed and his face relaxed when she walked by, and she gave a little sigh of relief. She was thankful that it was a moderately calm day on the ward. He needed the sleep desperately.

Rummond curled himself beneath his blankets, thinking of the quilt Belle had given him as though he could feel its presence in particular. She was right. He did need sleep, and he was feeling the effects of deprivation. It couldn’t have been helping his hallucinations, either. Perhaps since it was broad daylight, and since the ward was awake and Belle was there… He closed his eyes and allowed himself to drop off.

He was in the house he’d bought for himself and Milah those nearly ten years before, standing in the small hallway outside of Neal’s room. The door was open, and when he pushed it wider, the room was empty. Gutted. It was _wrong,_ and he felt a frantic need to search for his son.

A rifle shot rang out, and he felt himself falling. It took a full heartbeat before he felt the pain in his chest, like a sledgehammer. He fell to the carpet that had been placed beneath Neal’s bed. The floor didn’t feel hard - it didn’t hurt when he hit it. It had an unsettling give to it, as though it wanted to hold onto him.

The Austrian boy stepped closer, out of the darkness behind the door. He spoke in German as he looped the strap of his rifle across his chest. “And I will get your boy, too.”

Rummond gasped for breath and tried to staunch the blood, but when his hands found it, there was more than a wound. There was a hole in his chest, as if someone had tried to dig the heart out of him. He heard Neal crying from somewhere in the house, but everything was beginning to fade and he no longer had the strength to move. He would die right there, hearing his son but unable to help him.

Rummond woke unable to breathe, panic crushing air from his lungs. He crawled from his bunk to sit on the floor next to it, pushing himself into the corner between the bunk and table. 

He was dying. He was dying, and he couldn’t protect his son. The Austrian boy would kill Neal, and there was nothing he could do but bleed.

He pulled at his clothes over his chest, trying to push them into the hole, trying to stop himself from bleeding to death. If he could stop the blood, he might be able to get up and get to Neal.

“Nurse French!” Lieutenant Hargreaves yelled from across the ward.

She’d gone to wash her hands after showing Graham how to resuture a pulled stitch. Of course something had happened during the two minutes she was out of the room. She hurried out of the washroom to find Hargreaves standing between his bed and Rummond’s, a look of urgency on his face.

“Rummond?” Belle called before she could see him. When she got close enough, she realized he was out of his bed, and her footsteps quickened.

“He woke and- and _that,”_ Hargreaves attempted to explain, waving a hand at his bunkmate.

Rummond sat on the floor, his eyes wide and terrified, pulling at the front of his hospital gown. She knelt down in front of him. He faced her, but he wasn’t focusing. He looked right through her. It didn’t take long to understand that he was still caught up in a nightmare.

“Rummond, sweetheart?” she said, trying to ease him back. “You’re dreaming. You need to finish waking up.”

He opened his mouth, but he couldn’t draw breath enough to respond. He recognized Belle, though. Belle could get Neal out before he was found. He struggled to pull in enough air to speak.

“Help Neal,” he gasped, reaching out to grab hold of her skirts.

“Rummond, you’re all right. You’re safe. Wake up,” she said, curling her hands around his forearms. “You’re still dreaming. Look at me. Can you tell me where you are?”

“I’m going to die anyway, you can’t help me! Leave me alone! Help Neal!”

His insistence and belief that he was dying, and that he still tried to divert help to his son made something in her hurt for him. It was Rummond all over, but it was still a little frightening. 

Belle leaned closer, moving her hands to brace at either side of his neck. “You’re still in hospital. Whatever you’re dreaming, it isn’t real, Rum. You’re here on the ward with me.”

He blinked, a bit of the terror draining from his face. “Belle?”

“I’m here. Do you know where you are?” she asked.

Rummond looked down at his hands. He still held onto handfuls of her dress. There was still blood on his hands. “Hospital,” he murmured. “It wasn’t real.”

“That’s right. _This_ is real,” she said, stroking at his neck with her thumbs. “You’re safe, right here with me.”

He nodded, though he still seemed a little foggy. “Where is Neal?” he asked hoarsely.

“At school, sweetheart. He’s all right,” she reassured. “He’s at school.”

Rummond looked at his hands again. He let go of her dress, and there were bloody handprints where he’d held onto it. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.” She lifted one of her hands to touch his hair, letting the strands slide between her fingers. “Do you want me to send a message to Dr. Hopper to come in?”

“No,” he said quickly. “No. It’s fine. I won’t disturb him. Not over something so silly.”

“I doubt very seriously that he would think it silly.” Belle let her hands move slowly away and sat back. She noticed the way he studied his hands. “What are you seeing?”

He ducked his head a bit. “Blood. There’s nothing there?”

“Only hands,” she confirmed, showing him by slipping her hands into his. “There’s no blood here anywhere.”

Rummond closed his eyes and nodded, believing her. Belief didn’t make the blood go away, though.

“You’re having nightmares again,” she said quietly. It wasn’t even a question. 

“They never do stop for long.” He couldn’t open his eyes yet. He couldn’t look up at her, and he couldn’t look down at his hands. May as well keep them shut. “It’s a matter of less disturbing or more.”

Belle wondered what in heaven’s name he could have been dreaming to set him off in such a way. Something or someone had tried to kill him and gone after Neal? She couldn’t put together more than that, but it was enough to understand why he had panicked as he had.

“Every time I think I’ve gotten past the worst of it…” he muttered to himself.

“You have,” she said. “A nightmare is not a setback.”

“Doesn’t feel that way.”

“What does it feel like, then?” she asked.

“Like… falling.” He opened his eyes, looking at her skirt where he’d clutched at it. There were wrinkles, but no blood, now. His hands were clean, as well. He admitted quietly, “I’m afraid.”

“What of, sweetheart?”

“Falling into that pit again. Not being able to climb back out. I don’t want to be there again.” Rummond shook his head a little. “I couldn’t dig my way out of that again.”

She tightened her fingers around his, feeling how his hands shook. “Have you felt as if you’re there again, since you’ve been here? Have you felt that you were as far down?”

“No, I-” He frowned, trying to find the right words. “Never as far. I worry what’ll happen if I _do,_ though.”

“I can understand the worry. Even if you did, though - even if it got that bad again, that’s what you’re here for. That’s what Dr. Hopper is here to help with,” she told him, hoping that he could find some comfort in it. “And I’m not going anywhere. You understand that, don’t you?”

Rummond held onto her promise and her hands as if they kept him anchored to the world. “I believe that,” he said, squeezing her fingers in return.

“Do you feel a bit better? Do you think you could have some tea?” she asked. He’d calmed enough that she thought she could step away for that long, at least. 

After a moment, he nodded. Perhaps the warmth would do his insides some good, stop them shaking. He let go of her hands so that she could move, then braced himself with a hand on the bed frame and table to get back to his feet. He sat down on the side of his bunk and pulled his blankets across his lap.

Belle left the ward with a promise of being back as quickly as possible, and he simply sat there and breathed. It was too vivid, the nightmare. He could still feel the ache in his chest, and though he could stop himself, he still felt the instinct to check for a wound.

His hands _still_ shook when Belle returned with the tea and handed it to him. He was certain that he could hold onto the cup when she let go of it, and he wasn’t sure how he managed to fumble, but his fingers slipped on the handle and it began to tip, and despite his effort to recover, it fell from his hands.

Tea splashed Belle’s shoes and stockings before she’d quite registered that Rummond had dropped it. She was glad now that the walk up from the kitchen and Muis stopping her to ask whether the washroom linens needed replacing had cooled it down from scalding to merely hot.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry-” he said, distress coloring his voice again as he leaned to reach for the cup.

Belle caught his hands. “It’s all right, let me.”

“Mr. Muis, hurry and get the mop,” she heard Nurse Halloran say from nearby, apparently having seen the spill. It only took a few seconds for the younger nurse to fetch a towel and hand it to her.

Rummond continued to apologize, tears springing to his eyes with what was yet another bit of awfulness to add to the day. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“It’s only a cup,” she reassured him. She shook her head, tucking her skirts and apron up as she squatted down to blot the puddle of tea. Wiping the outside of the now empty cup, she placed it on the empty corner of his bedside table “You see? Only a chip. You can hardly see it.”

His look of distress softened a bit, but he was still visibly upset. She saw him wipe roughly at his cheeks, rubbing them red with the heels of his hands.

“I’ll be right back,” she told him, patting his knee, and took the cup and sodden towel away. She handed them off to Graham to be taken off the ward before stepping into the washroom. Quickly, she washed her hands and dried her shoes and legs.

Muis was just finishing a quick mop of the tile next to Rummond’s bed when she returned. When she got back to him, he way lying on his side, his covers pulled up high. He had a top corner of his quilt pulled so that it was inside with him - something she’d noticed he had made a habit of when he wasn’t feeling at his best.

“There are far worse things to smell of all day than tea,” she told him with a smile, sitting next to him.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“You needn’t be.” She laid a hand on his shoulder, rubbing the back of it gently. He’d had such a bad few days. The way he was feeling, spilt tea and a chipped cup must seem like a terrible thing. “It was an accident.”

Belle had the errant thought that she would have liked to crawl into the bed and curl herself around him, and it hurt that she couldn’t. She ran her hand up his shoulder, threading her fingers into the ends of his hair. Small touches were all she could do for now. She missed so badly being able to have him to herself, to touch him whenever she wished.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be past days like this,” he said, sounding discouraged.

“Everyone has bad times,” Belle reassured him. When he buried his face more deeply in his pillow, she shifted herself closer, her hip pressing against his curled legs. “Do you know how many days you ate this past month, compared to the previous ones? Or how many nights you slept, as opposed to before? I do. It took you a long time to fall as far as you had, and it’s taking time for you to heal. But you _are_ healing.”

He responded with a muffled, “Sometimes it doesn’t feel so.”

“You have days when it does feel obvious that you’re better?” she asked.

“Some days,” he said quietly. “Some days I feel almost right. Some are middling. Some are..”

“Like this?”

He nodded.

“Don’t they always pass, now?”

There was a hesitation, but he nodded again. “They do.”

“You’ll feel better again, and I’m here for all of it. Good days and bad,” she promised. “I’ll be here looking forward to the days you feel better, and I’ll be with you through every bit of darkness, whether you can see me there or not.”

She felt him pull in a shaky breath, and she leaned to place her face nearer his. “I love you, Rummond.”

Opening his eyes, he found her looking right at him, worry and love clear in her features. “I love you,” he echoed.

Belle cupped a hand to his cheek that rested on the pillow, so that he leaned against her palm. Heedless of everyone and everything else, she reached out to lay the other hand over his heart, making short, comforting strokes there.

From behind them, Lieutenant Hargreaves cleared his throat, and Belle looked back at him before following his look to the front of the room. Nurse Mills stood just inside the doors, eyes narrowed. Something between a smirk and a sneer had settled on her lips. 

Belle moved her hand away, but she made certain to give Rummond a smile before she stood. She could return later, but the look on the head nurse’s face… Moving away from him just now seemed the wisest thing to do.


	104. Wee Hours Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be in 103, but I ran out of time. So here, have a tiny bonus chapter!

She sat in her chair in the corner of the ward, leaning close to her lantern so that she could better see to read a case report about stereotactic surgical advancements in one of the medical journals she subscribed to. The devices seemed ingenious. Their inventors were only having difficulties convincing surgeons to put them to use. It was no wonder, really, but she thought they could save lives, once the flaws were worked out.

Belle caught movement out of the corner of her eye and looked up. Rummond was out of his bed and heading over to her, one arm wrapped around himself. She closed the journal and left it in her chair when she got up, going to meet him.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, reaching out to touch him as he stepped closer.

“Dr. Hopper once said I could call if he were ever needed after hours,” Rummond whispered, not quite meeting her eyes. He kept his gaze fixed on her hand where it rested on his arm. “I wondered if I might be able to call now?”

He looked ashamed, and as though he’d had to convince himself to ask. She could only imagine how much it had taken for him to cross the room to her for this.

“Of course,” Belle said, giving him a quick nod. “Come on.”

She walked with him, the two of them making a slow way down the corridor toward the front desk, Rummond leaning heavily on his cane. Well aware that he’d put off his most recent appointment, she was glad he had decided to talk to Dr. Hopper, regardless of the time of night.

“Do you want to make the call?” she asked as they stepped into the openness of the hospital foyer. “Or would you rather I do it?”

“Would you?” he replied quietly. 

Belle gave his upper arm a squeeze, letting her hand slip away as she stepped behind the desk. She glanced down at her watch as she picked up the earpiece to make the call. It wasn’t quite half past two; she hoped that someone would be able to answer. The line rang, and it rang, and she began to worry that no one could hear the telephone.

At last Dr. Hopper picked up. “Hopper residence,” he said, voice thin with sleep.

“Dr. Hopper, this is Nurse French. I have Captain Gold here, and he’s asking if you might be able to come in for a little while.” She looked to Rummond, who stood at the open end of the desk with his hand twisting on the handle of his cane. His face was drawn with anxiousness.

“Oh,” the doctor replied, sounding suddenly far more awake. “Oh, yes, I- I certainly can. I’ll be right in.”

She placed the earpiece back on its cradle. “He’s on his way,” she said. “It won’t take him long.”

Rummond huffed out a bit of air. She thought it might have been a sigh, but it was short and didn’t sound as though it was in relief of anything. His breathing held trembling in it.

“Do you want to go back to the ward until he arrives?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I’ll wait here. May as well.”

“All right, then.” Belle lifted herself onto the edge of the telephone table to sit. “I’ll wait with you. Come here, sit down.”

“You needn’t,” he said, but he went to her and sat in the desk nurse’s chair where it had been left next to the table.

“I don’t have to walk the ward for another half hour. I want to be here with you.”

Rummond looked up at her, finally meeting her eyes. “Thank you.”

She laid her hand on his shoulder for a moment before sliding it farther to curl across the back of his neck. Her fingers threaded into the ends of his hair, scratching gently against his nape. His eyes closed and his head tilted toward her a little, and after a few minutes, his breathing evened out.

“Was it another nightmare?” she asked softly.

He shook his head, and she could feel it more than see it. He didn’t speak. She didn’t press.

“The same one,” he said after a while. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

It’d had something to do with Neal, and with himself coming to harm. She understood that much from his words and behavior earlier in the day. Belle wished that she could take it away - his nightmares, his hallucinations - and give him _some_ peace of mind. 

There were still ten minutes before she needed to do checks when Dr. Hopper rode right up to the front steps, leaving his bicycle leaning against one of the stone posts. He hurried up the steps, shaking snow from himself before he came inside. 

“Good morning,” he greeted, tugging off his gloves and sticking them in a coat pocket. He looked tired but worried, and he gave them a smile as he approached the desk.

“I’ll be here when you get back,” Belle said, deciding to return to the desk between checks. It wouldn’t hurt, and she didn’t want him to have to walk back alone.

Dr. Hopper opened a hand in Rummond’s direction - an invitation toward his office. “If you’re ready, Captain.”

Rummond levered himself to his feet with the help of his cane as Belle slid down off the table next to him. She took his hand before he stepped away, and he squeezed hers before letting go, following the doctor down the corridor.


	105. Which Was, Which Is, Which Will Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts: _anonymousnerdgirl said: BtFtB prompt: Belle attends one of Neal's school functions and ends up having a private chat with Mrs Lapointe backstory ensues._
> 
> _Anonymous said: Prompt: Chip isn't a bad kid. But after his mother leaves him with Mrs Potts once more, he feels a bit brittle. Which is why when Neal talks about how wonderful Belle is, Chip gets a little nasty. He taunts Neal with the fact that she is NOT his mother and that she will probably get married soon and have a little baby of her own. Neal gets very upset and has a tantrum. Belle gets home having no idea what's gone on. But she gets it out of Neal eventually. This puts her in an awkward position._
> 
> (And just in case anyone missed it, there was [a short interlude chapter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2730107/chapters/19295185) following the events of 103. )

_“‘…She abandoned herself to the mercy of accidents, missing Terence one day, meeting him the next, receiving his letters always with a start of surprise,’”_ Belle read quietly from Rummond’s book. She sat sideways on his bed so that she could face him, one foot propped on the mattress rail and the other tucked beneath her, her knee resting to touch his thigh. She read while he ate his dinner, having exhausted the most recent tales of Neal’s week over the course of the rest of the day. 

“Are you enjoying it?” he asked, allowing a spoonful of stew to cool over his bowl. “If you aren’t-”

“I’ve read this one before,” Belle reminded him with a smile. “Though it’s been a while. I’m enjoying being here with you.” She bumped her knee gently against him. 

He seemed to relax a little, a bit of a smile even tugging up one corner of his mouth.

She went back to the page, where her fingertip kept her place. _“‘Any woman experienced in the progress of courtship would have come by certain opinions from all this which would have given her at least a theory to go upon; but no one had ever been in love with Rachel, and she had never been in love with anyone. Moreover, none of the books she read, from_ Wuthering Heights _to_ Man and Superman, _and the plays of Ibsen, suggested from their analysis of love that what their heroines felt was what she was feeling now. It seemed to her that her sensations had no name…’”_

There was a soft giggle from behind her, and she trailed off as she looked over her shoulder. Without yet turning back, she first patted Rummond’s leg, then moved to his arm.

“What is it?” he asked, but she only continued her urgent patting of him. “Belle, what?”

She attempted to point subtly across the aisle, and he caught on enough to look. Nurse Halloran sat on Commander Strand’s bunk. They were _talking._ Actually talking, both of them. When the Commander reached for Nurse Halloran’s hand and she gave it to him, Belle’s patting grew more insistent along with her broadening grin, despite that Rummond had already given her his attention.

Rummond caught her hand. “I see,” he whispered, amused at how happy it made her to find Strand and the nurse at last having some semblance of a conversation.

After taking a few moments to watch Ariel, Belle went back to the book on her lap. Rummond finished what he could of his dinner and set the tray aside, and her reading slowed when she looked over to see how much he’d left behind as he fished through his drawer for something. He had managed at least half of his meal. While she wished that his appetite would rebound as healthy as it had been, it was a work in progress.

He played with something as she read. It didn’t quite register with her for a while, so common it was that he needed to occupy his hands. She caught a flash of white as he moved it, though, and she couldn’t help but look. Doing her best not to look too closely, just in case it might make him self-conscious of his fidgeting, she glanced over. It took her a moment, the way he held it so close in his hand, but she finally recognized it as the napkin she’d brought lavender shortbread to him in _months_ ago.

Rummond stroked the folded edge between his first two fingers, again and again. He fiddled with it for comfort, she realized. Something warm and tight bloomed in her chest.

Belle reached the end of a chapter and looked down at her lapel watch. “Oh!” She searched her lap for the slip of paper, replacing it in Rummond’s book and giving him an apologetic look as she stood. “I need to go, if I’m to be on time. I still have to get dressed.”

He nodded, closing the embroidered napkin up in his hand. “You mentioned you’d need to leave.”

She’d told him something that morning about clocking out a bit early, but she had to hurry off to tend something right after. He hadn’t asked what she needed to leave for. If she wanted him to know, she would have told him, he figured.

“Good night, then?” he offered.

Belle smiled, not wishing him a farewell just yet. “My father donates to Neal’s school,” she said, setting Rummond’s book on the corner of his table. “He has ever since I was there. Every year, the school hosts a social function for donors, and my father always goes. _But_ he’s out of town on business this week and next, so it’s fallen to me to go in his place.”

The relief in his manner with her explanation was a small change, but she caught it. She’d forgotten to tell him the full story, and she scolded herself silently. Her thoughts had been a bit scattered. The donors’ function wasn’t something that she had ever particularly wanted to attend; it was filled with the local upper crust, and served as a show of money and mostly exaggerated charitability. She was going more out of interest for Neal than for her father. His donation could have been sent over via messenger or one of the house staff, were it strictly about that.

“I hope you’ll have a nice time,” Rummond said, reaching up to give her apron pocket a gentle tug.

She gave a good natured little roll of her eyes. “We’ll see. It isn’t that sort of an evening. Not for me.”

“There are other things you’d rather be doing after a night shift,” he guessed.

“I’d _rather_ stay the end of my shift reading with you,” she told him. “Alas.”

He smiled up at her - the first full smile she’d gotten out of him in days. She had to resist reaching out to touch the curve of his lips. 

“Good night,” she said. “Sleep well.”

“I’ll do my best. Good night, love…” He gave her his nightly message for his son, and she made herself go ahead and leave the ward. 

It was an hour before her typical end of shift when she put her card through the time clock. She took her coat from its hook and went out to meet Horatio, who waited in front of the hospital for her. Belle looked back in the direction of the east ward, at the window just across from Rummond’s bed. There would be a time when she didn’t have to leave him at night, she hoped. A time when she would be going to him in the evenings, instead of away.

Getting ready for some small event or other was usually an enjoyable thing for her. The process of getting dressed, sitting down at her mother’s vanity to put up her hair. It was different when it came to higher society gatherings. There was more expectation, more scrutiny and judgement, and it was far from her cup of tea anymore.

She stepped into her father’s study, taking the envelope from the blotter on his desk before she headed toward the front door. Mrs. Potts met her there with her coat.

“You’ll be certain to have something in the way of dinner, then?” Mrs. Potts asked.

Belle smiled at her concern. “There will be _canapés_ and _vol-au-vent,_ and more than one sort of punch, I’m sure. There always is.”

“Well. All right. You just mind you have some.” The cook nodded her approval. “I’ll have your bed turned down and a warmer in when you arrive home, and I’ll expect you’ll be glad to see it.”

“More than glad. Thank you.” Belle sighed. Her bed sounded so much more appealing than the function she was expected at. “Where is Neal?” she asked, turning as Mrs. Potts helped her into her coat.

“He and Chip are playing in the sitting room.”

“I think I’ll step in and say good night. They’ll be in bed by the time I’m back.”

Belle accepted her gloves from Mrs. Potts, exchanging them for her mittens. Her fingers would be freezing on the way to and from the school, but gloves were more elegant. It was ridiculous, she thought as she pulled them on, wiggling them down between her fingers as she walked down the hallway a bit.

“Neal, I’m going, now,” she said from the doorway.

The two boys sat on the floor, playing with some of the Christmas presents that Christopher’s grandmother had kept for him. Neal looked over his shoulder when she spoke, and he hopped to his feet as she went over.

“I’ll be back a bit late, so Mrs. Potts is likely to be the one to tuck you in tonight. All right?”

He nodded. “Night night,” he said, “since I can’t tell you later.”

“Good night, darling,” she wished him. She rested a hand on the ever unruly waves of his hair, bending to drop a kiss atop his head. She gave him his father’s love and goodnight wishes, accepting the messages that he gave her in return for his Papa in the morning. 

The function was precisely as dull as she’d expected. She accepted handshakes and exchanged pleasantries, and relayed her father’s excuses a dozen times over. She handed the envelope containing her father’s annual donation to the headmaster and smiled through the man’s spiel about where the contributed money went each year. The food was delicious - at least she could say that much for the evening. 

“Nurse French,” said someone next to her, and Belle looked to find Mrs. Lapointe having joined her in front of the punch bowls.

She smiled, relieved to see a more familiar and friendly face. “Please, call me Belle.”

“Then call me Guin,” Neal’s teacher said, giving her a warm smile in return. “You don’t look as though you’re having a pleasant time.”

“Oh, no, it’s just fine!” Belle assured her. “I’m having a lovely time. It’s- it’s-”

Guin arched an elegant eyebrow.

“It’s terrible,” Belle admitted at a whisper.

“Isn’t it, though?” Guin chuckled quietly, setting a hand on Belle’s arm. “Nine out of ten people in this room are stodgy old men only here to boast over how much they’ve written their checks for. At least the finger food is nice.”

“There is that,” Belle agreed, illustrating with a raise of the handful of them sitting on her napkin-covered palm. She was uncertain just how many she’d had, but her stomach was full. Mrs. Potts would be happy. 

She turned a piece of puff pastry idly between her fingers. “I’m glad you’re here. There’s something that I need to say. I’m so sorry for the way Colonel Fitzroy behaved toward you,” she apologized, cringing at the memory. “There’s no excuse for it happening at all.”

Guin shook her head. “You have no reason to be sorry. It had nothing to do with you. Arthur has always been…” She pulled an uncomfortable expression.

“You know him?” Belle asked. The other woman used the Colonel’s given name, and it sounded very much like they were acquainted.

“Unfortunately. Here,” Guin beckoned her a step over to the very end of the table, where it was quieter and out of the flow of traffic.

“If you don’t want to talk about it-”

“Oh, it’s fine, now. You should know, I suppose, having the two of us in the same room once a week. I do know him. We were engaged to be married at one point a few years ago.”

Belle felt her own jaw go a bit slack with surprise. That was nothing like what she’d expected to hear. “Engaged?”

“My father did a great deal of pressuring me to accept Arthur’s proposal. Our family was wealthy, but much of our business was kept afloat by German clients, and when the war became inevitable… well. Marrying Arthur would have meant we’d remain flush with money for the foreseeable future, war or not.” Guin frowned, turning to ladle herself a serving of bright pink punch and capturing a candied cherry from the bowl for her cup. “I accepted. At first. He was unpleasant before the war, and the war only made it worse. The way he spoke to me, the way he handled me, I-” She shook her head.

“I’m sorry,” Belle said. “I didn’t realize.”

“I just couldn’t go through with it, in the end,” Guin went on, setting the ladle carefully back into the punch bowl. She took a sip and a breath after it, then smiled. “Two weeks before the wedding, I went to Evaine Gaunnes’ engagement party and met her nephew. I think Lance was the loveliest man I’d ever met. In every way. We hit it off immediately. I saw him again the next day, when he came by to return an earring I lost at the party. I began to feel everything I’d never felt around Arthur.”

Belle popped the small piece of pastry into her mouth to keep from remarking upon how she knew the sentiment that Guin spoke of very well.

“I broke the engagement with Arthur and Lance asked me to marry him a month later. My father cut me off.” Guin shrugged. “I love teaching, and I love the life I have with Lance far more than I ever could have endured being married to Arthur. It’s been worth every bit of what it took to get here.”

“I’m glad you found happiness,” Belle told her sincerely. “And Captain Lapointe along with it.”

“Arthur is bothersome, don’t mistake me. But I won’t allow him to affect me any longer,” Guin assured Belle with some firmness. “I spent too long bending under the weight of his cruelties. I refuse to allow him a space in my life. If I must contend with him as long as Lance is in the hospital, then I will, but he is a misery unto himself. I believe someday he’ll realize that and understand everything he threw away. That will be a better punishment than any outside source could inflict.”

“I hope so,” Belle agreed. Guin mightn’t know how her remarks resonated, but Belle appreciated them all the same. They soothed a wound in her that she’d covered over and ignored for a good long while.

“Oh, my goodness,” Guin said, sighing and shaking her head as if shaking off the conversation. “Something more pleasant to talk of, yes? I have a mind to regale you of just what a joy that little ward of yours is to have in my classroom.”

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

Chip’s mum had dropped him off only a couple of days ago. Neal had been excited, at first. He looked forward to having his playmate back, even as reticent and sour as Chip was when his mum left. Chip would soften and be nice again after a few days. He had the first time.

Neal had sat on the settee and watched while Chip tore through the wrapping paper on his Christmas presents, setting them aside in favor of sulking his way through that day and the next. It wasn’t until Neal arrived home from school this afternoon that Chip asked him to play and offered to share. He brought out a set of nice, heavy building blocks and a set of little metal automobiles, telling Neal that he could play with the former.

They sat on the rug in front of the fireplace after dinner, and Neal created yet another house from the building blocks. Some of the pieces were plain, but some had been painted with small red bricks, and others with doors or windows. They were nice. Neal remembered having blocks when he lived with his Papa and Mum, but they hadn’t been like these.

Chip pulled back the little blue Sunbeam vehicle he’d been playing with and pushed it forward hard, making it crash through the house that Neal nearly had finished. It was the fourth house that he’d toppled. Neal only gathered the blocks and separated them out into shapes again so that he could start over.

“Belle takes me to the playground sometimes on Saturdays,” he said as he stacked ‘window’ blocks neatly on top of one another. “You could go with us. And she takes me to London with her when she goes, most of the time. And she reads me bedtime stories. Maybe she would read to you, too, if you asked her!” He looked up at Chip with a smile.

“I don’t _want_ her to read to me,” Chip grumbled, rolling the Sunbeam into the stone edge of the hearth. “And I don’t want to go to London.”

Neal pushed the stacks of blocks closer together and began laying out a foundation of plain ones. The rug made the house fall over, if he didn’t. He’d learned that quickly. 

“Belle and my Papa like each other a lot. They talk and hold hands.” Neal smiled brightly, chattering as he built. “They love each other. I even saw them kiss.”

“Belle is _not_ your mum, you know,” Chip grumped irritably.

Neal blinked, looking up at him. “I know that…” he said quietly.

“And she won’t ever be, not even if your papa and her got married. She won’t love you like a mum, either.”

All Neal could do was stare at the other boy. His hand, holding a block to put in place for a wall, hovered uncertainly.

“And when people get married, they have babies. That’s just what happens,” Chip told him, certain of it.

Neal looked down. He scooted the blocks closer to him, building more slowly. “But babies aren’t bad. Babies are nice.”

Chip bumped the edge of the blocks with the toy automobile. “Not when it means they don’t love _you_ anymore.”

Looking up again, Neal frowned. “What do you mean?” 

“When they have a baby of their own, they won’t love you anymore,” Chip said. “That’s what happens.”

“My Papa loves me,” Neal murmured down at the building blocks. 

“Until he has a baby with Belle to love together with her. It’ll have a dad and mum both, and you won’t.”

Chip rammed the little metal vehicle into the side of the blocks that Neal had been stacking. Neal left them toppled, finding that he didn’t feel like building it up again. He felt a shrinking, shaky feeling inside him that he recognized, and he needed to get away before it spilled out. 

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

It was just after eleven when Belle arrived home. She went quietly upstairs to change into her nightclothes. Sitting at the vanity, she took the pins from her hair and brushed it, pulling it back into a quick braid for the night. She wanted to look in on Neal. He’d have been in bed for hours now, but she wanted to set eyes on him for only a moment before going to sleep, herself.

The door swung open silently, and the lights left on in the hallway for her benefit were just enough to show her that his bed was empty. Empty and still made. Mrs. Potts wouldn’t have let him stay up until she got home, but even at that, he’d have met her at the door, if he were still awake. She pulled the door to and went downstairs. The kitchen lights were still on.

“Mrs. Potts,” she said as she went in. Belle could see the cook’s legs stretched out on the kitchen tiles from where she stood in the door, the rest of her hidden behind the middle work counter. She gasped, _“Mrs. Potts?”_

She hurried around the counter to find Mrs. Potts sitting on the floor in front of the lower cupboards. Well, that could only mean one thing

“I’m just fine,” the cook said. “We’ve someone inhabiting the pots and pans cupboard again, though.”

Belle helped to heft Mrs. Potts to her feet, then took her place. “What’s happened?”

“All I know is that Christopher is in a foul mood and said something to upset him. He’s been in the cupboard since not long after you left.” Mrs. Potts filled Belle in with a shake of her head. She walked away muttering something about, “I’ll have that boy polishing silver until he’s twenty…”

With the kitchen quiet, Belle could hear sniffling from inside the cupboard. She opened the door. “Neal, darling?” she said, shifting closer.

Neal didn’t answer. He made a pained sound and curled himself smaller into the back corner, his face turned toward the wall.

“What’s the matter? Can you tell me what happened?” Belle asked. She had to ask twice more before the words came out of him in a rush.

“You and Papa are going to get married and have a baby and you’ll have the baby to love and you won’t love me anymore because I’m not yours and Papa’s together!” It was muffled and spoken quickly, slurred together by hiccupping tears, and it took her a moment to puzzle out the entirety of what he said.

Belle rubbed at her forehead. Clearly Christopher had either overheard or been told what Mrs. Potts’ daughter told her when she’d dropped the boy off. Chip’s mother was pregnant, and she was headed off to marry her ‘gentleman friend,’ as Mrs. Potts still insisted on calling him with no small amount of sarcasm. Belle understood where Neal’s upset had come from, now. She would mention it to Mrs. Potts tomorrow. Just now, though, comforting Neal was the most important thing. 

“Oh, Neal…” She sighed. This was not a conversation she thought she would have with him so soon. And certainly not without his father present, as well. She couldn’t allow him to continue on thinking such a thing, though. He’d dwelled on it for far too long already. 

“Darling, will you come out of the cupboard for me? Everyone else is off to bed. It’s only the two of us here,” Belle coaxed. She reached in, rubbing gently across his back. “Come out here with me? Please?”

He turned slowly toward her, and she could see evidence of just how long he’d been crying. His face was splotched with red, his cheeks and the front of his shirt wet with tears. Neal bumped the cupboard’s contents together as he moved, flinching at the _clang_ of metal. She moved a stack of saucepans out of the way as he crawled toward the open door so that she could scoop him up as he came out.

“Neal, darling,” Belle said as she gathered him into her lap. “Your Papa and I haven’t discussed getting married. _But,_ even if we did, and even if we _did_ have a baby someday, that baby wouldn’t take your place. Nothing could ever take your place, and nothing could ever make your Papa stop loving you. Nothing could _ever_ change the way he loves you at all.”

He buried his face in the front of her dressing gown, and she wrapped him up in her arms. 

“Loving one person doesn’t mean that you love another person less, you know,” she whispered to him, rocking him side to side and petting his hair. “Your heart has room for all the love in the world. So does your Papa’s, and so does mine. No one can crowd love for someone else out.”

“Really?” he murmured against her chest.

“Mmhmm. I promise.”

Neal took a stuttering breath, sitting back a little. He held onto the front of her dressing gown, and tears still fell onto his cheeks, but they were tapering off. Before too long, he was only snubbing a little.

“What do you think of going to bed?” she asked. “It’s very late, and I believe you need a good tucking in.”

He nodded a bit, moving out of her lap so that they could both get up off the floor. Belle eased the cupboard door closed and held her hand out, closing her fingers around his when he took it. He leaned against her as they walked up the hallway toward the stairs. Between the late hour and his extended upset, he’d exhausted himself. She stopped to pick him up, carrying him on her front. He circled her neck with his arms and laid his head on her shoulder, and she laced her hands together under his bottom to support him.

“I want you to get married,” Neal said softly as they made their way upstairs.

“Do you, now?” Belle asked, and she felt a little nod of his head.

“If that’s what people that love each other do.”

“Sometimes it is. When they both want to marry.”

“I think you should,” he said, his words turning into a yawn.

Belle grinned. “I’m glad to have your blessing, if we happened to go in that direction.”

“If you had a baby, that would be okay, too.”

She had to press her lips together so that she didn’t laugh. “Well, that would take a while. If we decided on that.”

“I would love the baby, too. I would have enough love,” Neal told her, quite sure of himself now, despite how quickly he was falling asleep.

“I’m happy to hear that, darling,”Belle said, and she turned her head to press a kiss to his cheek.


	106. Seeking Whom She May Devour

“And how are the hallucinations? Are they still troubling you?” 

Dr. Hopper’s question drew Rummond’s attention away from the window. There’d been a flurry of snow set in overnight, and he watched the flakes as they were blown nearly sideways. The wind howled, making the hospital feel all the colder despite the furnace chugging away.

“They’ve slacked off. A bit. The occasional blood or unsettling mass lurking at the corner of my eye.” He twitched a shoulder, lifting a hand to wiggle fingers in the periphery of his vision before beginning to roll up the tool case on the cushion in front of him.

The session hadn’t been a terribly difficult one. For the most part, the doctor’s aim seemed to have been checking in on the surge in his nightmares and hallucinations, and easing more information from him about them. Both had begun to ebb a bit. 

Rummond _had_ been feeling better, if only marginally, but he was cautiously glad of it. It usually took far longer for him to see any manner of improvement when he’d been feeling so poorly. This morning, though, he’d felt able to leave his bunk without too much prodding, and he had dragged himself down to Dr. Hopper’s office on time. Without an orderly escort, at that.

“If they happen to grow more intense again-” the doctor began.

“I’ll be sure to mention it. You needn’t worry there,” Rummond agreed with an irritated quirk in the corner of his mouth, directed more at the intrusion of such aberrations in his mental state than toward the doctor.

“Ah, I wanted to mention - you relayed a message on this past Wednesday, when you didn’t keep your appointment, rather than simply not coming down to my office.” Dr. Hopper touched the bridge of his glasses to push them up. “That was… new.”

“I know I’ve a habit of not showing up when things are-” Rummond shook his head. “I’m sorry about that.”

The doctor held up a hand. I’m not looking for an apology. I only meant to remark upon the change.” He smiled, closing his patient’s file. “You may go, if you like. Your time is nearly finished, and I believe we’ve discussed everything I hoped to discuss today. Unless you have something that you would like to talk about?”

Rummond tied the leather strap around the tools with a solid pull at either side of the bow. “I’m quite talked out for the day, thank you,” he said as he reached for his cane.

There were things that had been nagging at him - things that he felt an odd urge to talk over with the doctor - but he couldn’t find it in him to give voice to them. Not yet. And certainly not when there were less than five minutes on the end of an appointment.

“I wondered if I might bother you to drop this in the post for me?” he asked, taking a small, thin envelope from the pocket of his robe as he turned away from the bookcase.

“Of course. No bother at all.” Dr. Hopper accepted the piece of mail. He glanced at the address. “Watch parts?”

Rummond nodded. “I’m working on something from that tin. Not certain it’ll turn out how I imagine, but…”

“I’m sure it will be just what it’s meant to be, in the end,” Dr. Hopper said, and he leaned to slip the envelope into the front pocket of his satchel before walking with his patient to the door. “I’ll see you on Monday, Captain.”

He headed back to the east wing, looking forward to getting under his blankets again and escaping some of the chill in the air. Pushing the door ajar, he hadn’t even time to set foot in the room before he was awash in some new tumult on the ward. More than one voice was raised, and he could hear Fitzroy’s among them. With a look inside, he frowned.

Belle stood next to Reyes’ bunk, one hand resting on the boy’s shoulder, obviously doing her best to reassure him of something. She looked up, giving Rummond a quick and weary smile, but she had to go back to calming the Corporal.

“How the fuck did a gutless like you ever find yourself in the service in the first place?” Fitzroy’s laughter cut through the air far too near the front of the room. “Couldn’t find a rock to slither under?”

Rummond decided that the ward was the very last place he wished to be. If opening the door was enough to set his nerves on edge, he couldn’t go inside. He needed to get away before it sent him spiralling into the panic he felt beginning to tighten his chest. Letting the door swing shut, he turned to walk back the opposite way. The storage room, then. Peace and quiet.

Belle glanced up again and Rummond had disappeared. She’d hoped that he wouldn’t come in. It wouldn’t do, having him set off in the middle of this mess, on top of everything else. Not when she couldn’t concentrate on helping him through it. She knew where he was, though, and it was the best place for him until the chaos had blown over.

“What in heaven’s name started it off?” Graham asked as he handed a cup of warm quinine water to Corporal Reyes.

Her mouth pinched a bit. “I’ll give you one guess.”

Graham sent a thoroughly disgusted look toward the back of the ward, where Nurse Boyd was busy fussing over Fitzroy as though he’d not done the first thing wrong. 

“He raised his fingers at Hargreaves, and it was the final straw in the Lieutenant’s mood,” she explained. “Fitzroy took it as permission to have a go at him and anyone else he could set his mind to.” 

She looked around, hands on her hips as she surveyed the ward for any more fires that needed putting out. Jefferson was buried beneath his covers, but she’d checked on him and found him all right, if a bit upset. Jezek was still grumbling now and then, and Knight had settled down. Reyes was the last to need particular attention.

Belle waited until the young Corporal had finished his quinine and seemed calm enough for a nap to take care of the rest before she decided to find Rummond. 

“I’m going to go-” she said, tilting her head in the direction of the doors.

Graham nodded his understanding. “Everything’s settled, I believe. I’ll come fetch you if anything happens.”

She gave his arm a pat and looked back to make sure of Nurse Mills’ position on the other side of the ward before she went. The wind blew so that she could hear it through the hospital, and just the sound of it sent a shiver through her. She wrapped her arms around herself, hurrying through the colder foyer and into the storage room, turning the lock behind her.

“Rum?” she called softly through.

She only just heard his response of, “Here,” when he spoke.

He’d spread the blanket out in his corner of the room, and he sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, staring off at the boxes across from him. Belle walked over slowly, the way she’d attempted to approach rabbits in the garden when she was small. It took a moment before his gaze flicked up to her face. He relaxed a degree or two, stretching his legs out as she sat down next to him. 

Rummond rubbed at his face with both hands. “My chest hurts,” he said quietly before she could ask whether he was all right.

She looked over to him. “When did it begin?” 

“When I got back to the ward.”

“I’m not surprised,” she said, frowning in concern as she tugged open his robe where it crossed over. “You know, I’m loath to say it, but I do wish Fitzroy had chosen a different hospital. I’m meant to be compassionate to all patients, but Lord does he make it difficult, the misery he is to the whole of the ward.”

He was breathing just fine, and she wondered if he’d had to calm himself. It was a good thing that he could, if he had, but she couldn’t help wishing it hadn’t taken her so long to get squared away enough to check on him.

Belle slipped open a few buttons down the front of his gown and slid her hand inside to rest against his chest. His skin was _so warm_ now, since he’d been eating well and his overall health had improved.

“It’s likely from exhaustion and anxiety,” she told him. 

Rummond closed his eyes. The heat of her hand spread outward, and it felt wonderful for so many reasons. Her touch was always lovely, always something to cling to, even now, when she gave contact so freely. He immediately missed the feeling of her skin against his when she moved. 

“Nothing wrong, I think,” she said. “Though it’s perhaps quickened with your reaction to the state of the ward.”

She couldn’t tell much about his heartbeat by the feel of it alone. All she could really discern was that it felt quicker than usual. She needed to hear it, and with no stethoscope, the old fashioned way would do.

Belle shifted herself closer. She guided his arm to rest by his side so that she could lean, pressing her ear to his chest to listen to his heart. It sounded normal, if a bit fast. No obvious physiologic or structural murmur. It sounded perfectly normal for such a situation. 

Rummond bowed his head, nuzzling his face into her hair near the side of her cap. Taking the arm she’d had him move, he curled it around her and rested his other hand gently over her temple. It was the first time he had felt warm all day. 

She stayed there, listening to the thump of his heart and how it changed - slowing gradually, calming when he moved to hold her. After a few minutes, she sat up in his arms, leaning into him. She brought her face near his, brushing their noses together, and she kissed him. They remained sweet, sipping kisses that didn’t grow desperate or deepen beyond the occasional catching of one of their lower lips between the other’s. She thought they seemed to radiate some comforting warmth, the two of them.

She _wanted_ to sit there with him, _wanted_ to indulge in his need for the quiet of the storage room for a long while more. She very much didn’t want to ask him to go back into the lion’s den. The head nurse would inevitably notice that one of her patients and one of her nurses had been absent for too long, though, and then no one would have peace.

“We need to go back,” she told him reluctantly. “The ward’s quieted down. Do you think you’ll be all right?”

Rummond nodded a little, and she saw him swallow before he spoke. “I’m ready to go back.”

“Your chest doesn’t hurt?” she asked.

“Not anymore,” he said as he buttoned up the front of his gown again. 

Belle reached up to turn his collar right, tucking his robe back around him. She stood and waited for him to get to his feet before going to the door. With a quick look, she confirmed that the foyer was empty save for Nurse Lind, and she waved him out ahead of her.

She reached for his hand to tug him to a stop as they stepped into the shelter of the east corridor, and she rose up on her toes to steal one last kiss from him before they went back onto the ward, He was smiling when she lowered her heels to the tile with a soft _click._. It took a moment for him to open his eyes again, and there was such emotion in them that it threatened to take her breath.

“My, what a sweet display this is.”

Belle was certain that her heart stopped for a split second. She turned, finding the head nurse standing in her open office door.

She took a step away from Rummond, their hands parting as she did. “I was walking Captain Gold back from his session with Dr. Hopper.”

“Were you, then?” Nurse Mills asked, and Belle could clearly hear the mocking in her tone. “I was unaware that accompanying a patient to an appointment involved one’s _lips.”_

Belle flushed even as a chill crawled up her spine. She had no response that wouldn’t amount to blatant misdirection, but she refused to break with the stare that the head nurse gave her.

“If I recall correctly, this patient’s appointment was scheduled nearly two hours ago.” Nurse Mills clucked her tongue. “I can’t imagine that you would be retrieving him from some _hiding place,_ after we’d already solved that problem. Surely not, Nurse French?”

“Of course not,” Belle lied, her pulse pounding in her ears. “His session with the doctor ran long. You can ask for yourself.”

Belle rather doubted that Nurse Mills was so interested in the truth of it, but she still decided to ask Graham to run down to Dr. Hopper’s office, on the off chance the woman did decide to pursue something over it. 

“Hmm.” The head nurse pursed her lips, shifting her stare to Rummond. “Well, then. I suppose you should both be returning to the ward. With a minimum of groping hands.”

Rummond’s fingers twitched with the need to reach for Belle. There was something alarming in the head nurse’s manner, but an unexpected lack of the vicious rhetoric he’d come to expect of her. Nurse Mills stood precisely where she was as they walked past, forcing them to move around her.

It took some doing not to look back, a sense of self-preservation itching between his shoulder blades. He could _feel_ her watching them. The expression on Belle’s face when he glanced aside to her convinced him that she felt much the same.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

Neal claimed his Papa’s lap as soon as his coat and hat were off on Sunday morning. He asked for his book from the picnic basket, and when Belle handed it to him, he opened it across his knees.

He ran a small fingertip across the page as he read. _“‘I had made up my mind that if you didn’t come for me to- to-ni- tonight I’d go down the track to that big wild cherry tree at the bend, and climb up into it to stay all night. I wouldn’t be a bit a- afraid, and it would be love- lovely to sleep in a wild cherry tree all white with bloom in the moon- moon-shh- moonshine, don’t you think?’”_

Rummond looked as though he could burst with pride as his son read to him. The little boy read slowly, his pronunciation halting in his caution, but he made his way through indeed without needing to ask either of them for help. Belle reached over, curling her hand around Rummond’s wrist and giving him a bright smile.

His son was still reading to them when Quinn and Gardner walked onto the ward, followed immediately by Nurse Mills. The head nurse looked directly at Belle, and her stomach turned. Nurse Mills rarely took a shift on Sundays - what on earth was she doing plaguing the hospital on visitor’s day?

It took her another moment to realize that Gardner held a straitjacket over his arm.

“Rummond,” she whispered, standing as they headed in the direction of his bed.

The color drained from his face. He quickly moved Neal off his lap, twisting to put the boy behind him.

“Papa?” Neal asked. He dropped his book and grabbed the arm of his father’s robe, finding his hands pulled gently but insistently away. 

“Sit down,” Rummond told his son as he pushed to his feet. “Sit there and don’t go near them.”

“Jacket him,” Nurse Mills said, standing by as though she were a general handing down orders.

He stood his ground for as long as he could, terror only clawing its way to the surface when the orderlies put their hands on him.

“No no no no-” He stepped back, his hands up in defense and his muscles tightening in resistance. They forced him out into the aisle and to the floor, putting him on his back to get his arms in the sleeves before turning him onto his belly.

 _“Papa!”_ Neal cried, crawling to the edge of the bed.

“I’m all right,” Rummond choked out, looking up at Neal and Belle as best he could. “I’m all right.”

“We’ll see about that,” Nurse Mills clipped as she stood over him, her arms haughtily crossed.

It was humiliating, having such done to him on visitor’s day, with so many people on the ward. And in front of his _son._ That was precisely why it was being inflicted now, he assumed. There were a good many things he’d have liked to say to the head nurse, but between fear and his son hearing, he kept the words bitten back. He lay there as they strapped him in, by now knowing the procedure of it. It hurt anyway.

Neal scrambled to the floor and dropped himself onto his father’s back, wrapping his arms around his Papa’s neck and clinging as hard as he could

“Belle!” Rummond called out, “Belle, take him! Take him before they hurt him!”

She bent down and looped an arm around Neal, taking one of his arms and prying him away so that she could pull him off. She wasn’t certain whether Quinn or Gardner would harm a child, but she wouldn’t chance it. Belle picked the little boy up and held him. He clung to her even as he reached the other hand out for his father.

“What’s going on here?” Graham asked, stalking across from the ward doors. He’d only just come on shift, walking into the middle of the head nurse’s show.

Nurse Mills grinned, sharp and determined. “We have a patient in need of a day’s confinement.”

 _“Why_ are you doing this?” Belle asked, doing her best to hold onto Neal as he grew more and more upset.

Nurse Nolan stepped over, touching the head nurse’s arm. “Is this really necessary? On visitor’s day?”

Nurse Mills gave her second in command a withering look, and Nurse Nolan shrank back. She looked to Belle. “You know precisely why,” she hissed before raising her voice for the benefit of the rest of those watching. “I did warn your Captain Gold about wandering off the ward.” 

Belle shook her head. “What are you talking about?” 

“Any excuse,” Ruby said. She stood by, jaw clenched and a dark look on her face.

The rest of the ward had gone still and quiet. Nurse Halloran stood between Rummond’s bed and Hargreaves’ family, looking on with distress clear in her face. The Lieutenant scowled, but he didn’t get into the situation - he knew better, particularly with his family present. Grace whined, reaching for her mother’s hand.

The last time Rummond had been off the ward at all had been after his appointment with Dr. Hopper on Friday morning. The same morning that the head nurse saw them on their way back.

“You _waited_ to do this.” Belle practically seethed. “You planned and waited a full _two days_ to do this to him today! You- you-”

“Careful, Nurse French,” the head nurse said quietly, her smile curling with the pleasure of the reaction she received all around. “We wouldn’t want to sully our reputation in front of the patients and their families with crude words, now would we?”

The pair of orderlies yanked Rummond to his feet to march him toward the doors. He groaned, the wrench of it hurting his shoulders, hurting his leg when they pulled him along and off the ward at a quick clip.

Neal struggled against Belle, and she wrapped him more tightly in her arms to hold onto him. He did his best to squirm away, crying out desperately as his father was taken from him, _“Don’t hurt my Papa! Don’t hurt my Papa!”_


	107. A Roaring Lion

Belle felt panic attempting to rise in her chest as the orderlies disappeared from the ward with Rummond, Nurse Mills right behind them. With his father gone from sight, Neal stopped calling out. He whimpered, looking up at her with fright in his eyes. She took a breath, willing away the shakiness of her own fear and anger. 

“It’ll be all right,” she reassured, holding him close. “Everything will be all right.”

She sat on the footlocker behind her, holding Neal on her lap. She couldn’t leave him so upset, and Rummond wouldn’t have wanted her to. He leaned against her and tucked his head into her shoulder, such a forlorn expression that it made her hurt for him.

“I’m going to check on your papa. Will you be all right here with Grace?” Belle looked back over her shoulder at Lieutenant Hargreaves. He nodded, and his wife gave a sympathetic smile.

Neal turned his face up to her. “Make them let Papa come back?”

“I don’t know that I can,” she admitted. “But I’m going to try.”

She gently encouraged him to move, and he climbed over to sit down in the middle of his father’s bed. Grace went promptly to sit on the far edge next to him, offering temporary use of her stuffed rabbit in an attempt to comfort him.

Belle stopped with her hand on the door handle, turning back to make certain that Neal was all right. He watched her, but he seemed to be staying put. Lieutenant and Mrs. Hargreaves would look after him.

She stepped off the ward, marching down the corridor and right past Nurse Mills’ open office door. It was a temptation, the thought of going in and confronting the head nurse, but there was someone more important to whom she needed to speak just now.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Nurse Mills asked from behind her desk.

Without faltering a step, Belle replied as she passed, “You know where I’m going.”

“You will _not_ release a patient from confinement against my recommendation again,” the head nurse snapped, walking out of her office and slamming the door behind her.

Belle allowed Nurse Mills to assume that her goal was as much, the other woman stalking quickly behind her until they got into the south wing and she turned toward the administrator’s office.

“You’re going to Whale?” Nurse Mills laughed, following.

Belle knocked sharply at the doctor’s office door. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate hearing of this.”

The head nurse grinned, stopping next to her. “Will he?”

“Come in!” Dr. Whale called, and Belle pushed the door open. The head nurse breezed in ahead of her.

“It appears Nurse French would like to dispute my orders for a patient. Yet again,” Nurse Mills said before Belle could open her mouth, shifting a confident look from her opponent to the doctor.

“Nurse Mills has placed a patient in confinement for the most trivial of reasons. _Yet again.”_ Belle refused to acknowledge the head nurse for obviously chiseling in to get ahead of her complaint, but she couldn’t resist mimicking the snide remark.

Dr. Whale closed the files that lay open in front of him, pushing his chair back. “Did we not have this discussion only a few weeks ago?”

“That was Lieutenant Hargreaves,” Belle said. “A situation which was equally uncalled for.”

The doctor sighed. He sat back down. “Make this quick, if you will. I have an amputation in half an hour. Time _is_ of the essence with gangrene.”

“Captain Gold was caught off the ward, sneaking around the hospital,” Nurse Mills continued.

“That is _not_ what happened,” Belle said, cutting in.

“I’ll remind you that I saw him with my own eyes.” The head nurse sent a challenging look in her direction. “It’s the second time that this has happened, _that was witnessed._ You understand, Dr. Whale, why I wish to put a stop to it. After all, a patient wandering so is a danger to himself. And one from the east ward…”

“Captain Gold sometimes steps off the ward when it becomes too loud and bothersome to his nerves. He does it so that he can calm himself,” Belle reasoned. “It does no harm at all, and he always returns after a short while.”

Nurse Mills scoffed. “No matter how _sensitive_ to the moods of the ward he is, he cannot be allowed to wander the hospital unchecked. It’s a danger to everyone, someone with his… condition,” she sneered.

“He is not dangerous! It isn’t as though he’s walking around looking for a way to cause harm,” Belle said, giving the head nurse a pointed look. _Unlike some people._

“Now, Nurse Mills, surely the Captain can avail himself of a bit of a walk from time to time?” Dr. Whale said. “It isn’t healthy for a capable body to remain in bed day after day, after all.”

The doctor’s agreement gave Belle a spark of hope that he would see sense in her argument.

“I’m not certain you understand,” Nurse Mills went on, speaking more slowly. “I would hate to be forced to tell Dr. Coughlan that our administrator can’t even carry through discipline with troubled patients. The hospital is on the brink of acceptable as things are.”

The head nurse’s audacity very nearly made Belle’s jaw drop. She wondered if Dr. Coughlan knew that his name was being used as a threat. She rather doubted it. And Nurse Mills didn’t even have the decency to veil it. Belle looked to Dr. Whale, confident that he would stand his ground, hoping that he would challenge the attempt at intimidation while they were at things.

Dr. Whale frowned, first at the head nurse and then down at his desk. “He is your patient, Nurse French, but he is Nurse Mills’ patient, as well. If she believes that Captain Gold’s behavior necessitates a day’s confinement-”

“My patient has done nothing to require discipline!” Belle turned her look of disbelief on the doctor and his sudden about-face. 

“I’m afraid I must defer to her judgement as your superior,” the doctor said, obviously cowed by Nurse Mills’ threat.

“And you are _her_ superior,” Belle said, only just choking back the ‘why can’t you act like it?’ half of her observation that might very well have ended in the administrator asking her to leave the hospital, influential father or no.

Dr. Whale directed his frown at her, then, and she could see the reluctance around his eyes. “That’s enough, Nurse French.”

She dropped her hands to her sides in frustration, doing her best to ignore the triumphant smirk that Nurse Mills was sending her. “Can he at least be relieved of the jacket? Will you allow him that much?”

“The jacket is for his own safety, as well as the staff’s,” the head nurse said before Dr. Whale could answer. “He _has_ become violent with the orderlies on previous occasions, if you recall.”

“Oh, that’s bilk,” Belle snapped. “And you _know_ it is.”

The doctor raised his eyebrows, glancing between the two nurses. “Did Captain Gold fight the orderlies who took him from the ward?”

“No.” Belle looked to the head nurse, daring her to lie.

Nurse Mills huffed. “Only because he was caught by surprise.”

“There is no reason not to take the straitjacket off him,” Dr. Whale decided. “And allow him a method to relieve himself, at the very least.”

“And if he throws it?” the head nurse countered. “One never knows what one of _those_ men might do in a nervous state.”

Belle wheeled on Nurse Mills with an open mouth, but Dr. Whale spoke again before she could retort.

“It couldn’t make a much greater mess than leaving him without one.”

The head nurse twisted her mouth up a bit. “Fine. See to it, then.”

“If you’ll excuse me, now, I have a patient to attend,” the doctor said, dismissing them.

Belle waited for Nurse Mills to leave the office before she followed, closing the door behind them with a tad more force that might’ve been necessary. 

“You’re mistreating my patient for no reason at all. No actual wrongdoing, no therapeutic purpose,” Belle said once they were alone in the corridor, fed up. “You are torturing him!”

“The same patient who was scheduled for a session with Dr. Whale’s electric cure, only for the procedure to be interrupted and the device destroyed so soon after?” Nurse Mills gave her an amused look.

“Captain Gold had nothing to do with that, and you know it!” Belle turned to face the other woman head on.

“Do I, now?” the head nurse said, appearing far too satisfied with herself. “Perhaps you shouldn’t attempt to champion _every_ patient under your care, and you might have more success in defending them when truly necessary.”

Belle’s jaw dropped again. Nurse Mills had _planned_ this. As far back as upsetting Lieutenant Hargreaves with intended confinement. She wondered if the head nurse had known that she would intervene with Dr. Whale over it, and that the doctor would be less likely to side with her when the situation was repeated. The possibility startled her, and yet she couldn’t discount it, knowing the way Nurse Mills worked.

 _Oh, you- you battleaxe,_ she thought, the Lieutenant’s favorite word for the awful woman popping to mind.

“If I can’t find your pet patient’s new hiding place to cut it off, then I’ll stop him from running to it in other ways,” the head nurse said, giving Belle a knowing look before turning away. “I am no fool, Nurse French.”

“And neither am I!” Belle followed Nurse Mills’ quick steps back toward the east wing, not allowing the head nurse to leg off and leave the conversation behind this time. “And the fact that you are hell bent on harming a patient tells me all I need to know about you as a nurse.”

“That specimen of human filth deserves every misery that’s been heaped upon his head,” Nurse Mills snarled, disdain practically dripping from her words.

“How dare you?” Belle bit off sharply before she could think twice of it. “How _dare_ you? That man has been through more than you can imagine, and all you can summon up for him is cruelty and hatred? _Why?”_

“If you knew what I know of this _Captain_ Gold, you wouldn’t stain yourself by-”

“No!” Belle raised her hands, open in offense, to cut into the invective that she knew was coming. And it was clear by Nurse Mills’ furiously nonplussed expression that she was accustomed to neither being interrupted nor the word itself. “Insult after insinuation after veiled accusation toward him comes out of your mouth, and yet you refuse to make anything clear. Your warnings about to ‘wait and see’ and calling _me_ names, and I am done with it.”

“Your offended feelings should be the least of your concerns, Nurse French. You would do better to worry in relation to this… _trist_ of yours.”

“I don’t believe you have any room whatsoever to call my relationship a trist.” Belle wouldn’t bring Dr. Coughlan up by name, but there was enough implication there to make Nurse Mills’ face redden.

“How is this for clarity? _You_ may be content to be his whore, but there are those who were forced into such a position. That sorry excuse for a man was craven long before he began playing victim, and I won’t turn a blind eye to it. The glitter will tarnish, Nurse French, and you’ll be left with nothing more than regrets and ruin. If my sister-” The head nurse cut herself off with gritted teeth.

Belle narrowed her eyes. “What has she got to do with _any_ of this?”

“Your morning off is cancelled today. Pin your cap on and clock in.” Nurse Mills tilted her head back, sneering down at Belle. “I believe it’s time for those of us who actually work to get back to it.”

Belle was left furious and speechless just before the ward doors as the head nurse went inside. She wouldn’t take such an argument onto the ward itself, and Nurse Mills knew it. Turning on her heel, she hurried back down through the corridors to the south wing, 

Rummond’s face lit up with hope when she opened the door. A pang of guilt went through her.

“I can’t let you out,” she said, her eyes stinging. Tears sprang up out of frustration with the entire predicament - anger over Rummond being unfairly punished and helplessness with her failure to be able to do anything about it. 

His expression darkened again, but he nodded. “It isn’t your fault.”

“I’m so sorry,” Belle whispered, stepping nearer. She touched his wrapped arms, guiding him gently to turn away from her, and she pulled the crotch strap loose from its buckle. “I tried. Nurse Mills-”

“Nurse French,” Dr. Whale said. He walked up the corridor from his office, headed toward her. “Jacket only.”

“I remember,” she replied a bit waspishly.

To her chagrin, he gestured for an orderly who was turning the corner into the wing from the foyer. It was an orderly from the north ward - a friend of Quinn’s, who happened to be with him. Her day’s supply of diplomacy thoroughly exhausted, Belle scowled openly at Quinn as the pair approached.

“Sir,” the north ward orderly said by way of asking what the doctor needed.

“The patient here needs to be relieved of his jacket,” Dr. Whale instructed. “Mr. Lowell, fetch a bedpan. Mr. Vaughan, if you would help the nurse.”

Quinn trotted away to do the doctor’s bidding, and Vaughan stepped between Belle and Rummond to take over unbuckling the straitjacket. When Quinn returned with the requested bedpan, he leaned into the confinement room’s doorway and tossed it into the near corner. Rummond flinched away from both orderlies.

“Be a bit more careful, if you would,” Belle snipped.

“Take his belt,” Dr. Whale said, “to be safe.”

Mr. Vaughan turned Rummond bodily and pulled the straitjacket off him, handing it to Quinn. Not waiting for Rummond to untie his own robe belt, the orderly pulled the bow out of it and took it from the loops, passing it to Quinn, as well. Belle snatched it from Quinn’s hand with a cool glare. She wound it around her hand and tucked the bit of fabric into her apron pocket.

“I can lock the door,” she said when they’d finished. “With a minimum of antagonism.”

The doctor seemed satisfied, and he sent the orderlies on their way before leaving for surgery, himself.

“I tried to convince Dr. Whale to override Nurse Mills’ order, but she made some ridiculous threat, and he caved.” Belle shook her head, trying to force back renewed tears. “I couldn’t-”

“It’s all right. I’m all right. It’s only a day and a night,” Rummond said, pulling his robe closed around him. “I’ve been in before, and without such creature comforts as a bedpan and use of my arms.”

She shook out her hands, the upset making it difficult for her to stay still. “I don’t understand why she _does_ this. I couldn’t-”

“Belle, I’ll be fine.” He lifted a hand halfway, his fingers flexing as though he wanted to reach for her before he let it drop again. “What about Neal? Is he?”

“Oh, God.” She sighed, closing her eyes for a moment. “He is. He’s all right, now. I left him with Lieutenant and Mrs. Hargreaves. Grace lent him her rabbit.”

“He was upset,” Rummond said.

“He was, but I calmed him down. When I left him, he asked me to make them let you come back.”

“My poor boy,” he murmured, looking down at his bare feet.

“He’ll be glad to hear it, though disappointed you’re not with me when I go back. There’s nothing to be done for that.” She followed his gaze, wishing that he could have his slippers. At least the floor in confinement wasn’t tile. “But he knows enough to understand you’re unharmed, even if out of his sight.”

“You should…” Rummond frowned, but he stepped back. “Close the door before someone who’ll report you sees.”

“I’m sorry,” Belle said again.

He looked nothing more than a kicked dog as he told her once more, “It isn’t your fault, love. None of it.”

She ached to touch him. To take his hand, to touch his face. To give him _some_ comfort. It was a bit much, though, to tempt fate with such just now. Nurse Mills’ pets were only a corner away.

Belle checked the time. If he had a day of confinement, then it would last no more than a day to the minute, and she would be certain of it. She shut the door and locked it, her stomach lurching nauseatingly as she did.

She went back to the ward, to Neal, relieved when she found the head nurse closed up in her office again as she passed by.

“Your papa is all right,” she said, sitting on the edge of Rummond’s bed and lifting the little boy onto her lap. “He can’t come back just now. He has to stay in another room tonight, but he’s all right.”

“He is? Really?” Neal asked, curling close as Belle wrapped her arms around him.

“He is. I’m going to call Horatio and have him take you home. Would you feel better there?”

Neal looked longingly at the ward doors where they’d taken his father away. “I can’t see him anymore?”

“Not today, darling. I’m sorry,” she said.

He fidgeted, tugging at the buttons on his shirt. “Did they hurt him?”

“No, they didn’t hurt him,” Belle reassured. “He’s sad, the way you’re sad, but they didn’t hurt him.”

“Okay,” he said quietly, though he seemed a little doubtful.

She debated whether it would hurt more or help for Neal to hear Rummond’s voice, to verify that his father was all right. Finally, she decided that it might help both of them.

“Would you feel better if you could talk to him?” she asked. “He’s behind a door, in a room we can’t go into just now, but you could talk to him, if you want.”

Neal nodded quickly, looking up at her. She set him down off her lap and took his hand, walking him out to the foyer. It only took a moment to call Mrs. Potts with a quick explanation and ask her to send Horatio over, and they continued down to the south wing.

“Which door?” Neal whispered, and Belle pointed out the door just to the left of the corridor’s end. 

He approached it almost shyly. Standing close, with his face near the handle, he asked, “Papa?”

Belle heard a noise from inside - movement and something very like a sob - before Rummond responded. “Neal?”

“He wanted to hear your voice,” she said. “He wanted to know for himself how you are.”

“I’m just fine, duckling,” Rummond assured his son, and she could hear the tremor in his voice. “Are you all right?”

Neal reached up, patting the door as they talked. “I’m okay, Papa.”

“I’ve called to have him fetched home.” Belle squatted next to the little boy, resting her hand on his back. “Horatio will be here in a few minutes.”

“Good. That’s good. You should go. Draw something for me, hm?” Rummond suggested - an effort to give his son some small distraction. “It won’t be long before I can see you again.”

“I can see Papa next Sunday?” Neal asked.

“You will absolutely see your papa next Sunday,” Belle told him. “You’ll have all day together.”

“I love you, duckling,” Rummond said form the other side of the door.

Neal patted the door once more before he stepped back into Belle’s arms, leaning his head on her shoulder. “I love you, too, Papa.”

“We’re going, now,” she said, hugging the boy to her with one arm. “I have work to do, but I’m going to come down to sit during lunch.”

“Belle, you needn’t-”

“I’m _going to.”_ She stood and took Neal’s hand again “I’ll see you in a while.”

Belle bundled Neal up in his coat and things again, and she took him back to the front desk to wait.

He sighed, his mittened hand squeezing hers. “It’s not fair they took Papa. I only get to see Papa today.”

“I know.” She sat on one of the waiting chairs, turning him to face her. “It isn’t fair. Not to you, or to your papa, either.”

Horatio pulled up, and Neal looped his arms around her neck for a hug. Belle held him tightly to her for a few moments before walking out with him and putting him into the tourer.

“Take him right to Mrs. Potts, please, Horatio?” she asked, knowing that there would be something comforting waiting for him in the kitchen when he arrived, and not wanting him to dart off for hiding spots unknown.

“Yes, miss,” the driver said with a nod. “Straight to Mrs. Potts.”

The five hours between seeing Neal off and lunchtime seemed interminable. She busied herself with her own tasks and part of Nurse Halloran’s, as well, to take her mind off seething thoughts. When lunch was at last brought around, she took a tray from the trolley rather than approach Gardner for it, and she returned to the south wing.

She felt a bit ridiculous, knocking softly at the confinement room door, but she didn’t want to frighten Rummond by suddenly swinging it open.

“Belle?” he asked after a hesitation.

“Who else?” she responded with some attempt at cheer, balancing the tray on one palm as she unlocked the door. He was pushing awkwardly to his feet when she opened it.

She gave him the tray, his fingers brushing along hers on either side as he took it. “You didn’t have to bring this,” he said, looking down at the plate as though he wasn’t quite certain what to do with it.

“You think I would let you starve all day?”

“I’m not sure I can- Belle, I don’t-”

“Eat,” Belle told him, interrupting him before he could turn down the food. “Please, try?”

He hummed, but he nodded and limped a step back so that she could close the door again. She sat down on the tile, leaning her back against it.

“Still all right?” she asked.

“More or less. It could be worse,” Rummond said. “I could have Hargreaves’ fear of small spaces.”

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

Thanks to the weather and time of year, it was almost utterly dark in confinement. There was barely a sliver of light coming down from the small, high window. And it was _cold._ There was no heating vent going into the room, and his robe was far too thin to be of any help. He pulled it tightly around him anyway, pressing himself into the padding of the corner next to the door, curling small and trying to stay as warm as he could.

Rummond rubbed at his shoulder, still sore from being wrenched. He hadn’t been able to sleep. Even if he hadn’t been given to insomnia, he didn’t think he could have managed it.

He’d heard Neal crying as they pinned him to the floor, and calling out as the orderlies dragged him from the ward. The sound of it echoed through his head. It was unforgivable.

He worried for his son, and he worried for Belle, but as for himself… He was angry. He wanted to rip the padding from the walls, wanted to tear the bars from the ridiculous window that sat so high no one could reach it, much less climb through. He remembered the anger he felt when Nurse Mills put him in the cold bath, when he realized that she was targeting him out of some sort of personal malice, and the last day only served to multiply it. There were many things for which he might have deserved punishment, but none of it from the head nurse. There was no warrant for her mistreatment, and that Neal had to see it, that his son was so upset by that woman’s cruelty, was unconscionable.

Rummond wished some bit of just deserts on Nurse Mills. Or for her to leave the hospital in a permanent way. Or, if nothing else, some bloody idea as to why she insisted on inflicting misery after misery on him.

He leaned his head back against the padding. There was no way for him to tell what time it was. All he knew was that night had come and gone, and it was daylight again. Belle would be by to let him out soon. She’d promised in the night, and again before she had to leave to perform her morning rounds, that she was watching the time. Still, he kept having to shake the fear that he would be forgotten and left from his head.

Belle touched her lapel watch for perhaps the hundredth time in the past day, checking once more how long she had until she could release Rummond. She made certain to have a break in her chores just after eight. Taking his cane from next to his bed, she left the ward and headed for Dr. Whale’s office.

She’d stayed with Rummond for much of the night, sitting against the confinement door so that she would be there for him. She had never spent all of a night shift between checks off the ward, the way many of the nurses did. Belle liked to keep a closer eye on the patients than that. But she’d told Lieutenant Hargreaves where she would be and increased checks to the half hour, and it had gone well enough.

They’d talked a little, she and Rummond. Every so often, he’d asked something, and she suspected that it was his way of being certain she was still there with him. When he needed her to, she told him bits of gossip from around the ward and gave him the occasional story about Neal’s day, when something came to her. She didn’t think he slept. If he did, it could only have been for a few minutes at a time. He would need his bed and a proper meal when he came out.

Belle knocked on Dr. Whale’s door and waited until he spoke before she stepped inside. “I’m releasing Captain Gold from confinement. His twenty-four hours are up.”

The doctor gave her a nod. Notifying him was more for proof of the time than anything else. Nurse Mills couldn’t attempt to claim that she’d let Rummond out early, if the administrator had the time of release on record.

“Good morning,” she said, sighing with a _little_ relief. Rummond looked not too much worse for the wear, though beyond tired. She held out his cane.

He took it and used it to help himself to his feet. “Good morning,” he echoed with a weary smile.

Belle noticed how he shivered. Confinement was absurdly cold, and she could have kicked herself for not remembering. She should have brought a blanket.

“Come on, back to the ward,” she said, hurrying him along. “I want you in a warm bath, first thing, then under your blankets.”

“How was Neal?” he asked, looking over at her as they made their way in the direction of the east wing.

She smiled. Of course she’d called Mrs. Potts before doing her first rounds, and it amused her a little that he figured as much. “He had trouble sleeping, as well. He’s doing well, though. Mrs. Potts is keeping him home from school for a bit of coddling.”

The smile that he responded with was small, but it felt genuine. “He’ll need a bit.”

Belle wished that she could give Rummond a day of coddling, herself. She reached over, wrapping a hand around his wrist and giving him a warm look before forcing herself to let go again. The expression that crossed his face was just as warm, and she knew that he understood.

“I know breakfast’s gone past, but- I couldn’t manage much. Could I have something to eat?” he asked as tentatively as though he thought she might refuse him.

“Of course you can. I’ll get you a fresh plate of breakfast and a cup of tea. I just want you warmed through on the outside, first. Then I’ll get you warm on the inside.”

As she lifted a hand to push the ward door open, he gave her a sidelong look that surprised a laugh from her. “Rummond, really,” she said, pretending to scold and to be scandalized.

He ducked his head, pressing his lips together. Belle was certain she saw a flush rising in his cheeks. He would be all right, then, she decided, if he could give her a look that amounted to innuendo of that sort. Nurse Mills could do many things, but she couldn’t make the two of them stop loving one another.


	108. Slow Engines of Destruction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt _\- siesiegirl said: I hope Archie gives [Regina] a good talking-to for the damage she's done here._

Belle put her things away and clocked in, and by the time she turned the corner off the foyer to head toward the kitchen, Ruby was trotting up the corridor, calling her name.

“Belle, wait,” her friend said, and she stopped so that Ruby could catch up. “Do I have something to tell you.”

An unpleasant little knot formed in Belle’s stomach. The feeling must have come through in her expression, because Ruby waved a hand at her.

“It isn’t bad. Well, it is, a bit, but not for you. I think?” Ruby’s nose wrinkled. She fell into step as Belle began walking again. “Oh, just listen. You’ll see.”

That wasn’t much in the way of reassurances. “Go on with it, then,” Belle hurried her.

“It’s about this entire brouhaha with Nurse Mills.”

“I had a suspicion.”

Belle stepped into the kitchen and looked to the window over the sink to see Zelda in the garden just outside, the cook carrying a lantern in the pre-dawn as she pulled back the bit of sailcloth that sheltered her winter herbs. The kitchen smelled wonderful. Beans bubbled away in their great pot on the back of the stove. More than half of the sausages had been cooked, and she could smell them where they kept hot in the oven. The rest sat on their butcher’s paper next to it. The day’s basket of eggs was waiting on the counter next to the sink, and loaves of the previous day’s bread waited there to be sliced and toasted.

“I talked to Victor about what happened,” Ruby began. “Well, I suppose ‘talk’ might be too mild a word. It’s possible he heard about it most of the evening. Loudly…”

Pausing in her reach to take a cup down from the cupboard for Rummond, Belle glanced over.”Did he happen to respond?”

Ruby rolled her eyes, leaning a hip against the counter where Belle began bringing out tea-making supplies. “‘Nurse Mills is only doing what she believes is necessary for the patients. Nurse Mills is over the nurses and orderlies for good reason. Nurse Mills knows what she’s doing.’ The usual lines. I don’t believe for a second that _he_ believes that, though.”

Belle frowned, but she couldn’t find it in her to be surprised. “She threatened him.”

“Threatened? He didn’t tell me that!” Ruby’s eyes widened. “What do you mean, threatened?”

“After she sent Rummond off to confinement, I followed her to Dr. Whale’s office and we… locked horns a bit.” Belle turned to fill the kettle.

Ruby’s eyes only widened further. _“Did you?_ What happened?”

“I really thought he was going to come down on my side of it. I’d’ve sworn he was. But Nurse Mills made a remark about Dr. Coughlan and how the hospital is struggling, and he shut right down. Said he had to ‘defer to her judgement’ as my superior.”

“Damn it, Victor,” Ruby grumbled more quietly. Then she scoffed, “Coughlan. I suppose that was inevitable, her using his position in all her skulduggery.” She crossed her arms over her chest, wiggling a foot thoughtfully. “He’s already gotten some complaints. People are talking about what Nurse Mills did. Patrons, donors.”

That got Belle’s attention. “How is he handling that?”

“Not well. He’s trying, but I’m not sure how it’s going.”

“He does realize that if patrons begin withdrawing from the hospital, it’ll go under? All of the patients will be forced to find other places to go.”

“Oh, he realizes,” Ruby said with a nod and a bit of an irked look. “There were families there on Sunday that donate. He had a half dozen visitors of his own Monday morning to discuss it, and none of them were happy.”

“What did he tell them?” Belle asked, fishing a spoon and tea strainer from the drawer next to her. 

“He assured them that it was a _very_ unusual incident, and that he would look into it. At least one threatened to withdraw their financial support.”

Belle set the spoon down hard and turned to stand near the warm stove, waiting for the kettle. “Then why doesn’t he do something about it?”

Ruby shrugged. “If he doesn’t, he’ll end up running the hospital into the ground. He worries already about how it rides the fence so near being in the red. If Nurse Mills is threatening him the way you heard… rock, hard place?” she said, holding out one hand and then the other.

“He’s going to have to go up against one or the other and take _some_ sort of action, or he’ll lose his position - and all of our positions” The kettle whistled and Belle poured a bit into the teapot to warm it. She emptied the pot into the sink and took it over to spoon in tea and pour in enough water for a cup.

“Believe you me, we had a conversation about that, too. He knows.”

“Is he worried about it? At all?”

“He is, but I got the sense he feels as if his hands are tied. Now I know why.” Ruby sighed. “He isn’t the most present of mind, but this is ridiculous. He hands complete control of the nurses and orderlies over to the head nurse to keep the split in attention from affecting his pet projects, but there’s a breaking point.” She picked at a loose thread on her cuff before smoothing it down. “Nurse Mills isn’t a good nurse. Obviously. I know she was supposed to have been once, but apparently that’s a thing of the past.”

“And she doesn’t give a damn that the hospital could go under. She doesn’t care about the people in it, and she has more than enough to live without it,” Belle said bitterly as she poured Rummond’s tea.

“Oh, no she doesn’t,” Ruby chirped with a pleased smile.

Belle whipped a look up to her friend’s face, the teapot and her hand stilled in midair. “What do you mean?”

“I’m sure she did at one time, but the estate her mother left her? It’s all but gone. She’s put herself into debt to keep up the house and pay for her sister’s doctors. The house is all she has left, now, and apparently she’s trying to sell it to pay her debts.”

“How do you know all of that?”

“Mary Margaret. As usual.” Ruby took the strainer and pot when Belle finished pouring the tea, and she went to give them a rinse. She looked over her shoulder and grinned at the conflict in her friend’s expression. “It’s all right if you enjoy knowing that.”

Much as she loathed Nurse Mills, Belle didn’t allow herself a smile despite the twinge of schadenfreude she felt. She added honey and cream, preparing Rummond’s tea the way she had when he wasn’t eating. He still wasn’t quite clearing his tray; it couldn’t hurt.

Ruby patted her hands dry and looked down at her lapel watch. “Victor should be getting in soon.”

“Going to pay him an office visit?” Belle teased. “Or have you arranged an exam room for this morning?”

“Oh, no, his exam room privileges are revoked until he fixes Nurse Mills’ troublemaking,” Ruby replied. “I also told him he’d want to do something about the entire mess if he wants a honeymoon night.”

Belle snorted softly, laughing. She doubted that her friend could go through with quite as much as that, but the gesture was appreciated. “You’re a good friend, Ruby.”

“I am, aren’t I?” Ruby grinned, swatting Belle’s arm affectionately with the back of her hand. “He’d better start fixing this soon, though. It’s killing _me.”_

Belle wondered whether the head nurse’s financial situation had anything to do with the way the woman treated Rummond. He was gaining a fortune at the same time Nurse Mills was losing her own, after all. But no - it had all begun long before he’d so much as a thought of an inheritance. Whatever grievance the head nurse had against him seemed far more personal than financial envy.

“What more do you know of Nurse Mills’ sister?” Belle asked as they made their way back up from the kitchen.

“Not much,” Ruby said. “Only that she’s been badly off, mentally speaking, for years. And that Nurse Mills had her committed, but you know that. I think Mary Margaret remarked once that Nurse Mills was their mother’s pet, and the sister felt slighted? She’s a fair few years older than Nurse Mills, too, I think.”

Belle hummed shortly, watching the cup of tea so that she didn’t slosh it over the edge. “Do you know her name?”

Ruby shrugged, shaking her head. “I’m going to go on and see Victor in, show him what he isn’t getting,” she said, grinning as she split from Belle as they neared the turn from the north wing into the foyer.

“Let me know if you find out anything more?” Belle asked.

“I always do,” Ruby told her with a wink shot back over her shoulder before disappearing around the corner.

Belle sighed, hoping for some manner of knowledge that she could use, or a bit more insight into what was going on, at the very least. There was _something_ going on, and while being in the dark about anything was an irritation for her, it was particularly maddening here. She was still angry on Rummond and Neal’s behalfs, and not having more information that could help her to make it stop absolutely vexed.

When she’d arrived home on Monday evening, Neal was better. Not happy by any means, but he hadn’t been _as_ upset. Mrs. Potts had given her a near minute-by-minute description of the boy’s day since Horatio delivered him to the kitchen. He’d been quiet and sullen, neither of which were surprising, though he’d brought down his crayons and a pad to draw at the counter while the cook prepared dinner. Apparently Neal had cried about being left alone when Mrs. Potts tucked him in on Sunday night, and she’d ended up sleeping in the rocking chair in his room, holding him so that he could sleep.

Belle thought Mrs. Potts might be harboring nearly as much distaste for the head nurse as she did, herself, at this point.

Neal had come into her room the previous night and asked to sleep in her bed, and there wasn’t a way in the world she could have denied him. If he was seeking some smidge of safety with her, she was determined to provide it. He’d awakened them both in the wee hours of the morning with a nightmare. The bit she could draw out of him had something to do with his father being taken away, and Neal himself having to stay in the confinement room. It had taken nearly an hour for him to calm enough to lie back down, but he’d fallen asleep again curled close in her arms.

He’d sent along all save one drawing with her this morning, declaring it unfinished and keeping it rather hidden. Belle had the three he sent for his father rolled up safely in her apron pocket. There would be more effects from what he’d seen. She was quite certain of that. She figured that the way the little boy reacted when she brought him on the next visitor’s day would tell the tale, as far as how he would handle what had happened.

She heard someone talking as she neared the turn onto the east wing corridor, but it wasn’t until she heard Nurse Mills’ voice that she came to a sudden halt, nearly splashing herself with tea. A drip pattered to the floor over the rim of the cup.

“Oh, nonsense. Of course you can,” the head nurse said, dismissive and commanding all at once.

“You’re asking me to _lie_ for you!” Nurse Nolan replied, clearly balking at what was being demanded of her.

“Come now. I’m simply asking you to verify what I’ve already said. All you need do is agree.”

Nurse Nolan’s voice rose in pitch with distress. “Which would be a lie! I will not outright lie to the administrator!”

Belle wanted to peer around the corner, but she couldn’t be certain how near they were or which way they were facing. She wouldn’t chance it.

“I’m certain you’ll find the will _and_ the way,” the head nurse said, her tone lowering. “It isn’t as though you haven’t blindly parroted what you’ve been told before.”

“Well, not anymore, I’m not,” Nurse Nolan refused. Her response was uncertain, but she voiced it nonetheless. Belle found herself rooting for Nurse Nolan’s small revolt.

“You’ll do precisely what I tell you, if you know what’s good for your little family,” Nurse Mills snapped, the threat an obvious one.

Belle heard a few footsteps. “Do _not_ walk away from me,” she heard the head nurse hiss.

There were more footsteps, and they were both heading in a direction that would take them directly past where Belle stood. Likely to Dr. Whale’s office, if she could predict by their conversation. Belle hurried as silently as she could back toward the kitchen, hoping to escape notice.

The two nurses passed by without stopping, and she waited a moment longer before turning once again to go back to the ward. She’d never heard Nurse Nolan butt heads with Nurse Mills before. She was glad that Nurse Nolan was growing something of a backbone, though concerned about what the head nurse might do to her for it.

Belle delivered the tea and Neal’s drawings to Rummond, who greeted her with a ‘good morning’ and a smile that went some way toward untying the knots in her stomach. She sat with him until it was near time for her morning checks.

After a while, Nurse Mills came onto the ward without the usual Nurse Nolan trailing after her. She strode toward the back of the room with a stony look. Not long after, Ruby returned in time for her shift with a smug, happy smile on her face. With a pat of Rummond’s knee, Belle went to the front of the room to see what - if anything - her friend had heard.

“Anything to report?” she asked hopefully.

“Only a doctor confused about being denied exam room time,” Ruby said. “Sorry.”

“Excuse me Nurse French, Nurse Lucas,” Dr. Hopper said quietly as he stepped in, and Belle and Ruby moved away from the doors.

He stopped, looking down through the ward for a moment before he seemed to find what he was looking for. Belle and Ruby exchanged a look and followed at some distance before he found Nurse Mills in the middle of performing her own morning walk of the ward.

“I need a word with you,” the doctor informed her evenly.

“Oh dear…” Ruby whispered, and Belle understood the sentiment. There was really only one thing that brought Dr. Hopper to the ward. His patients.

A sneering look crossed Nurse Mills’ face, as though she knew what he was on about. The discussion began quietly, only growing more heated as the head nurse attempted to brush him off.

“I run my ward the way _I_ see fit,” Nurse Mills said.

“You’ve gone past harming patients with your actions,” the doctor told her, finding a fire in himself to go through with his confrontation. “As barbarous as that is, what you did to Captain Gold on Sunday morning affects his son, as well. It was foolishly irresponsible to restrain a calm man so in front of a ward filled with civilians - particularly when his own child was there to see it. A child who is still healing from traumatic events in his own recent past, which your actions could very well worsen again.”

“It wasn’t as though I could allow him to escape discipline simply because there were other people present, doctor,” the head nurse said, clearly not caring for a single word that Dr. Hopper attempted to get across.

“And what of the other patients? The way they’ve been disrupted? What are they to think? How are they to find comfort enough to heal, if they fear they might be treated similarly in front of their own families?

“If they walk a narrow line, they’ll have nothing to be afraid of, will they? Fear is the entire reason these patients are huddled on this ward, anyway. You speak as though it’s something new to them.”

Dr. Hopper frowned, narrowing his eyes at her. “It isn’t that you don’t understand,” he said as it occurred to him. “You don’t care what you’ve done.”

Nurse Mills met his accusation with a smile rather than refuting it. “As I said, this is my ward. You’ve no say in how I handle the patients on it, when it comes to misbehavior and discipline.”

The doctor took a step toward her. “Oh, don’t I?”

“No. You do not,” the head nurse snipped off. “I would direct you to Dr. Whale to disabuse you of that assumption.”

The doctor squared himself up. “If you don’t stop inflicting such cruelties on my patients-”

“What will you do?” Nurse Mills simpered sarcastically. “Psychoanalyze me?”

“This is not the end of this,” Dr. Hopper said, pushing his glasses up in irritation.

Her smile grew. “Oh, I’m quite certain of that.”

“Dear God,” Ruby muttered after the doctor had passed them by on his way out, agitation clear in the clenched fists by his sides as he walked away. “For once it’s not the patients turning everything upside down.”

The ward door opened again, and Belle turned toward the sound with a feeling of _oh, what now?_ It was Graham, though, and he approached them with a question evident in his face before he pulled something from his pocket and began to explain.

“I wasn’t sure you’d rather give it back to him, yourself,” Graham said.

She hesitated, not terribly certain how she felt about the thing being found. She finally held out her hand, though, and he dropped it into her palm. “I would. Thank you.”

Belle stepped away from Ruby and Graham, walking back up the aisle and around to Rummond’s bed. She smiled, though it felt odd on her face just now.

“Belle?” Rummond asked as she stood next to him. He closed his book and set it aside when her silence stretched on for seconds that her apprehensive expression made worrisome.

She seemed to shake herself out of it. “The groundskeeper was doing a bit of maintenance work around the hospital lawns last afternoon,” she said, her eyebrows rising with her explanation. “He said he saw a glint in the dirt and turned something up. He gave it to Graham, and Graham passed it along to me…”

Belle opened her hand to reveal a bit of gold that Rummond immediately recognized as his wedding ring.

He looked at it in shock for a moment before taking it, holding it pinched between his forefinger and thumb. The look he gave the piece of jewelry was one of sad distaste. 

“I don’t want it,” he said. He’d crawled around in the muck and pouring rain for the bloody thing, and now he didn’t even like having it in his possession. Rummond repeated, “I- I don’t need it. I don’t want it.”

“What do you want to do with it?” she asked.

His brow creased as he looked at the ring. “Do you know where I might find an envelope?”

Belle’s strained smile turned genuine, and she walked away. It didn’t take her long to retrieve one. She sat next to him as he did what he’d decided. He took a couple pieces of paper from his bedside table drawer and dropped the ring on top, folding it securely into them. For a moment, he considered some note. Some explanation. But he left the paper blank and slipped it into the envelope, licking across the gum on the flap and sealing it shut.

Remembering the information from the paperwork he’d signed more than five months ago now, he pulled a pen from the drawer and addressed the envelope very clearly. _Milah Jones, Drogheda, Ireland._


	109. You Will Find Strength

He was aware that the freedom of getting himself to and from Dr. Hopper’s office without a chaperone was likely to be suspended after the ridiculous travesty that was this past visitor’s day, and he’d been right. The new orderly on the ward, Muis, walked down with him. Muis was all right - perfectly nice, an excellent orderly - but the rapport that he and Humbert had found wasn’t there. Humbert was thriving as a nurse, but Rummond did still miss those occasional walks.

The doctor welcomed him in, and he took the watch from the bookshelf before settling in his usual spot on the sofa. He had just enough time to get his small workspace laid out before Dr. Hopper began.

“How are you feeling?”

Rummond sorted out a pallet bridge screw with the tweezers and picked it up, dropping it carefully into place before switching to a screwdriver. “Fine,” he said. “Better.”

“Is your most recent downswing persisting?” the doctor asked. “Or do you feel that it’s leveled out?”

With the screw half-seated, Rummond stopped. He considered, taking inventory of himself as well as he could. “I… I don’t feel _worse…”_

Dr. Hopper watched his patient with careful evaluation. “You’ve not felt it worsening after being in confinement?”

“I’m just fine.” Rummond said it rather tightly, shrugging one shoulder.

The doctor waited a moment before he pushed for a little more. “I ask because you had such a difficult time on the first occasion in the confinement room.”

“This time was a bit different,” Rummond murmured as he picked up the matching screw. 

“Oh?” Dr. Hopper encouraged when his patient didn’t go on.

“I, ah-” The Captain shrugged again. “Belle was there. Often as she could be, over the course of the day and night.”

The doctor nodded. “And you were alone the first time.”

Rummond fiddled with the watch reassembly, tightening both pallet bridge screws down before saying quietly, “Worse than alone. Belle had switched wards - or I was told she’d done. She was gone. I had no idea then whether I might see my boy again. There was nothing for me. I’d gone adrift. This time… this time, she was there, and she wouldn’t let me forget it.”

“Nurse French made it tolerable this time.” Dr. Hopper smiled. 

“She’s what got me through it without going mad thinking over everything. Her voice. Knowing she made certain that Neal was taken care of. She was a- a-” Rummond shook his head.

“An anchor?” the doctor supplied.

“A good word,” Captain Gold said, a soft laugh coming out with his breath. “She was my anchor.”

“How is your son?” Dr. Hopper asked. “Is Neal handling it well, what he saw?”

Rummond’s brightened face went dark again. “Nightmares. Belle says he’s been having nightmares again. He’s not been wanting to sleep.”

“That’s understandable. And unsurprising, knowing what I do of the situation.”

“He’d been doing so much better…” 

Dr. Hopper watched as his patient’s expression turned sad. “May I ask what you’re thinking?”

After a few moments and the replacement of some wheel in the pocketwatch’s works, the Captain eventually said, “I wish I could be there with him.”

“What would you do if you were there?” the doctor asked.

“Hold him. Dry tears. Let him know he’s safe.” Captain Gold’s lips thinned into a line. He sounded as though he’d wished often for it. “The same things Belle and Mrs. Potts do for him, I imagine.”

“They couldn’t replace you,” Dr. Hopper reassured. He’d seen more than enough of how the man’s son adored him to know it without doubt. “Not in your son’s eyes.”

“Oh, no, I’m not worried about that.” Rummond shook his head. One side of his mouth pulled into a small smile. “I know Neal wants me around.”

“You feel secure in your son’s affection?”

Rummond’s smile grew a little. “I suppose I do. He does love me. I can see as much. I hope he understands how much he’s loved. How much _I_ love him.”

“I’m quite certain that he knows,” the doctor told him gently. “I believe he understands.”

Dr. Hopper made a short note. The Captain Gold who had placed himself in the hospital’s custody in despair couldn’t have declared that he was loved. Even a few months before, his patient hadn’t felt such confidence. It was an excellent bit of progress. He wondered whether the Captain was equally certain of Nurse French. That wasn’t something that he generally inquired about out of the blue, however. His patient would bring her up, if needed.

“Have you had any run-ins with Nurse Mills since you were in confinement?” Dr. Hopper asked him.

Rummond shook his head. “None. She’s kept some distance, as far as I can tell.”

“Good, good,” the doctor muttered softly, glad at least that the head nurse wasn’t actively harassing his patient at the moment.

“I’d like to-” Rummond began, but he cut off his words, his jaw clenched.

Dr. Hopper looked up at him. “Yes?”

Captain Gold only frowned for a few moments. He seemed as if he were carefully selecting his response. “I’d like for neither my boy nor myself to ever have to see her again,” he said, and it was quite obvious that he was avoiding any expression of wishes of harm. 

The doctor gave a small frown in sympathy. “I’m sorry that Nurse Mills has affected both of you so. I wish that I could put a stop to it on my own.”

“The ward fears her…” the Captain said. “Seems much of the staff fears her, as well,” 

“I know. I hope that the hospital will find some eventual relief of her.” Dr. Hopper’s frown deepened. He nudged his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his index finger in a nervous gesture. “I suppose that’s an unprofessional sentiment to have toward one’s co-worker, though.”

Captain Gold shook his head. “I can’t speak for the rest of the hospital, but I believe that’s a rather universal sentiment on the east ward.”

An idea occurred to the doctor. “Captain… If you’re agreeable, I’d like for you to tell me when Nurse Mills does these things. Each incident, however small it seems, and in detail,” he requested. “Those that happen to you personally, as well as any you might witness.”

It wasn’t something that he would ask of just any patient who came to his office. Captain Gold seemed excellent at keeping things quiet, though, on top of apparently being the head nurse’s favorite victim. And it might not accomplish much, the way it appeared Nurse Mills was bulletproof when it came to her behavior toward the patients. Still, keeping some record might be helpful somewhere down the line.

“I can do that,” the Captain readily agreed. “What of past incidents?”

“Any that you can remember,” Dr. Hopper said with a nod. He opened the top drawer next to him and brought out a small notebook and a pencil. Standing, he took them around to his patient. “I’d prefer you only leave written evidence of these reports in here.”

Captain Gold hummed. He flipped the cover of the notebook back and took the pencil that the doctor offered. “It would be most unpleasant to have it make its way into unfriendly hands.”

“It would, indeed.” Dr. Hopper returned to his chair and folded his hands on top of the file sitting in front of him. He quickly decided to keep said reports in his satchel. They would stay with him. It was the safest option, as a certain head nurse had forced her way into his office in his absence before.

Rummond spent a good portion of the rest of his appointment writing down unpleasant encounters he’d had with the head nurse. He considered leaving off the things that had seemed more trivial - the moments when she’d only made cutting remarks toward him, the day that she’d found him in the supply closet, the offer to take care of his son - but he decided that Dr. Hopper could weed those out, if he liked. He made it as complete as he could manage. It was more nerve-wracking than he’d have imagined, going back over it all in his mind.

The doctor came back to take the notebook when he’d finished. “It’s near enough the end of our appointment - you can go, if you like.”

Rummond began slowly clearing up his cushion workspace. He turned a thought over in his head for a few minutes before allowing it to come out of his mouth. “I played violin at Christmas.”

He saw Dr. Hopper raise his head, the deep look of dismay that had taken up residence on the doctor’s face as he read through the notebook giving way to one of interest.

“Did you?” Dr. Hopper encouraged him to go on.

“I hadn’t played in years. Not since everything was-” Rummond stopped, frowning. “Well, since it _seemed_ happy with my ex-wife.”

“How did it go?”

“I suppose I played well.”

“I meant to ask how it went in a more personal manner,” the doctor clarified.

“I enjoyed it. The way it made me feel.” Rummond carefully transferred screws over to the handkerchief with their watch. They were safer there now, since the tool case went back and forth to the ward with him. “Playing fiddle was always something of my own. My father had nothing to do with it, nor did Milah. No one had. I learnt it for myself.”

“So it didn’t bring up unpleasant memories?”

“It did, a bit. Of the last time I played. But good memories more than counterbalanced.” Or they had until he’d had a bit of a breakdown, but that hadn’t anything to do with his playing. “It belonged to Belle’s mother, the violin did.”

“That sounds like something very special to Nurse French,” Dr. Hopper observed.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Rummond ducked his head, using putting away the tools and watch components to hide his smile. He was still so pleased and flattered that Belle had allowed him to play such a beloved instrument. The significance hadn’t been lost on him.

He replaced the watch on the bookcase, and Dr. Hopper met him by the office door. 

“Would you consider having your son brought around for a talk again?” the doctor asked. He and Neal had been talking once a week for a long while, though their visits had tapered off as the little boy was healing. He hated to imagine the wounds that Nurse Mills’ actions might have re-opened.

“I’ll do that,” Rummond replied with a nod. “He likely needs it. Couldn’t hurt, anyway.”

“I’ll see you on Friday, Captain,” Dr. Hopper said, opening the door so that Rummond could step out into the hallway.

Muis stood, folding the pulp magazine he’d been reading in half and tucking it beneath his arm. He walked alongside Rummond as they made their way back.

Rummond heard the roar of an automobile as they headed up the corridor, and the sound cut off before they stepped into the foyer. Someone pushed their way through one of the front doors. Still ensconced in a heavy traveling coat, it took him a second to recognize the man as Dr. Coughlan.

The doctor looked right through him and the orderly both. He walked at a quick clip ahead of them, and Rummond saw him knock at the head nurse’s door before letting himself inside. He heard the doctor give a greeting of “Regina…” with unmistakable affection before the door closed.

It shouldn’t have bothered him, simply seeing Dr. Coughlan. The anxiousness of writing out Nurse Mills’ actions had him rattled, though. Perhaps seeing Coughlan was only the back-breaking straw of it. His chest went tight, and waves of hot and cold passed over his skin. He felt the blood drain from his face. Muis must have seen some change, because Rummond felt the orderly’s hand at his elbow as they neared the ward.

Belle was keeping an eye out for his return from the appointment, and he was glad of it when Muis handed him off to her keeping.

“Do you need to go to the storage room?” she asked quietly as he made his way toward his bunk.

Rummond shook his head. They’d already had a close call. He didn’t want to endanger either of them or the location of his hiding spot, either.

She shepherded him over to his bunk, pulling his blankets up once he’d gotten in, and she sat on the edge. “You remember how to control your breathing,” she said. It wasn’t a question - it was a direction.

He took measured breaths, counting them in and out as she looked on. She took one of his hands between both of hers, and he hoped that it could be seen as something she might do for any patient she was helping to pull back from the edge of panic. It took longer than he’d have liked to slow his breathing and pounding heart, but with the warmth of her hands he made it through the other side of it.

“Did something happen while you were in with Dr. Hopper?” she asked, concern drawing her brows together.

“Mm…” he hummed, pulling his thoughts into an order enough to give her something nearer a proper answer. “Yes and no.”

Belle’s hands squeezed around his. “Is it something you can tell me about?”

He sat up and leaned close, and Belle leaned to meet him. Whispering as softly as he could without her being unable to figure him out, he explained what Dr. Hopper had asked him to do. A slow smile curled at her lips as she listened.

“Oh, I like that idea,” she said, sitting back a little. There was a delightfully sly look in her eyes. “I’m going to ask Nurse Halloran to give it to me in writing, what she saw of the bruise on your arm.”

The answering smile on Rummond’s face fell away. “Belle… be careful. If that woman found out that we were amassing some kind of file-”

“She would target everyone contributing.” Belle nodded. “I won’t even bring it onto the ward. I’ll pay Nurse Halloran a visit this Saturday and ask her to write it up for me then, and I’ll deliver it straight to Dr. Hopper. It’ll never come onto the ward.”

He sighed, curling his fingers over the small hand beneath his palm.

“Is that what upset you so badly? Remembering the things she’s done?” she asked.

“Set my nerves on end a bit, I suppose. Ridiculous.”

“It isn’t ridiculous. She’s done some awful things to you.”

He shook his head. “I was all right until I saw Coughlan. That’s what somehow sent me into hysterics,” he grumbled.

She blinked. “Coughlan?”

Rummond nodded. “I imagine it was something to do with his old investigation and knowing how she’s handing down threats under his name that did it to me. He was going into Nurse Mills’ office. It didn’t sound much like a business meeting.”

Belle looked down at their hands, narrowing her eyes in thought. “I haven’t heard anything about an inspection. Nurse Mills wouldn’t spring that on us unexpectedly. She can’t stand not being able to pick every nit she can find beforehand. She enjoys her good inspection reports too much.”

He made a small sound of agreement. “As I said - didn’t sound like business.”

“It isn’t all that surprising. He’s been making more and more frequent visits. I do wonder how he justifies coming down this way so often.” Belle shook her head. At least the head nurse stayed _a bit_ more out of their way when Dr. Coughlan was about. “And that wasn’t hysterics. I’ve seen you in hysterics,” she told Rummond, giving him a teasing smile when he looked up at her.

“Felt near enough to it.”

“I’m proud of you, Rum.”

He huffed a watery laugh and gave her a doubtful look. “For not turning into an utter wreck right here on the ward? How easily appeased you are.”

“I’m proud of you for so many things,” she said, squeezing her hands around his once more before cautiously slipping them away again. 

The way he clung to her fingertips with his own for as long as he could sent a little ache pressing behind her breastbone. She wanted to hold onto his hands, to kiss his fingers and hold them to her cheeks. 

“I love you,” she told him, hoping that it made up for having to take the contact away from him.

His smile was weary and crooked, but it was a smile that made the beat of her heart flutter when he whispered back to her, “And I love you.”


	110. In Flagrante

“I don’t suppose you’ve come to any conclusions yet?” Ruby asked, slipping her arm through Victor’s as he locked his office door. Granny had invited him to dinner, and she’d stayed a bit late so that they could leave together.

He held her arm against his side, bringing her closer, and she grinned to herself. The nix she’d put on their examination room activities hadn’t yet brought the results she intended, but there had been other, unforeseen benefits. Small things, such as asking her how her day had gone, inquiring after wedding plans, taking her hand when they were alone rather than reaching for her skirts. Victor had never been so attentive.

“I’ve been considering your proposals,” he said. He hesitated for a moment before sighing and looking over to her. “Ruby, I don’t think you understand what a difficult position I’m in.”

She cast a slightly irked look at him as he dropped his keys into his coat pocket. “I know what position you’re _not_ going to be in,” she replied, tugging him along to get them headed out.

He had an eyebrow raised and seemed poised for some retort when a sound echoed toward them from up the corridor. They traded a curious look, and there was the sound again - a definite _thump._ The two of them made their way more slowly forward, listening until they approached the room he’d set aside for his electric shock therapy device. Yet another _thump_ and a laugh came from inside.

“What the devil…?” Victor frowned. He stepped away from Ruby, reaching for the handle.

It occurred to her a second too late that she should perhaps stop him. He might not have recognized the sounds, but she did, and she had a momentary worry that it might be a friend who was engaged so behind the door.

“Victor-” she managed before he opened the room and a startled yell burst out.

Her concern was immediately scattered. Before turning away, Ruby caught a glimpse of the head nurse and Dr. Coughlan that she _truly_ would have preferred not to. They scrambled to right themselves and their clothing.

“Good Lord!” Victor stumbled back into the corridor again, pulling the door nearly to. “Nurse Mills, I will see you in my office after you’ve put yourself together,” he instructed through the small space before slamming it shut as well as he could.

Ruby recovered enough to need to smother laughter, not wishing to become yet another of the head nurse’s targets as a result of this. She knew that Victor couldn’t exactly censure Dr. Coughlan, the man being his superior, but if he went about things the right way with Nurse Mills, then perhaps the second bird might stone itself.

Victor shook his head, his features drawn in a kind of stony distaste. “Ruby, I’m sorry, I’m going to have to-”

“It’s all right. Go and tend to business,” she said. “I’ll see you when you get to dinner. Try not to take too long?” Ruby dropped a kiss on his cheek. It was the most passion he’d seen in days, and the fact of that was obvious in the way his face pinked.

She walked away as though she were in a hurry to get home. Too curious to allow Nurse Mills to be scolded in private, Ruby ducked into the nurse’s washroom, giving the head nurse a generous five minutes to separate herself from Dr. Coughlan and get to Victor’s office. She was reaching for the door handle when she heard a man’s footsteps moving into the foyer, fading and disappearing. They were followed by the sound of one of the front doors closing. Stepping out of the washroom, she heard Dr. Coughlan’s automobile start.

Ruby went quickly back to the south wing and placed herself outside of Victor’s office once again. The head nurse was quite obviously already inside, and he’d already begun handing down a lecture on propriety and the hospital’s good name. There were parts of the berating that she would have taken issue with, had its recipient been any other nurse, but it was extremely satisfying as things stood. She could correct Victor’s remarks sometime when he was malleable and likely to bend with her opinions - neither of which he was just now.

She startled and hurried away at a trot upon hearing Victor dismiss Nurse Mills. Tipping her lapel watch up, she checked the time. Belle should still be on the ward - she stayed late as a habit these days, and Ruby was rather certain she’d appreciate hearing a little good news.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

Belle had taken up her usual station on the side of Rummond’s bed, distracting him with a tale about his son’s artistic efforts at school while he ate. Every drawing that Neal had made over the last few days had featured his Papa in one manner or another. Rummond’s smile as she told him so was a brighter one than she’d seen in a while.

From the corner of her eye she caught an odd motion at the front of the ward and looked up to find Ruby standing just inside the door, wiggling as though she could hardly stand to wait there.

She nudged Rummond’s leg gently. “I’ll be just over there,” she said, pointing to Ruby.

“Reasonably sure I’ll be right here when you get back,” he teased, a smile curling in the corner of his mouth.

Belle gave his knee an affectionate swat as she rose from the bedside. “You’d better.”

As soon as she was near enough, Ruby grabbed her arm to pull her the last two steps. “We just walked in on Nurse Mills and Dr. Coughlan playing rumpscuttle!” she breathed, speaking as quietly as she could in an attempt to keep it from getting around immediately.

“You-” Belle’s eyes widened. “You _what?”_

Ruby nodded quickly. She looked as though she might burst in her excitement. “Right in the middle! Skirt up, trousers off-”

“Please don’t draw me a picture,” Belle said, wincing. “You and Dr. Whale? You _saw_ them?”

“Much more than I ever wanted to see of either of them,” Ruby told her, sympathizing with Belle’s reaction. “Victor saw far more than I did, thank heavens.”

Belle sobered, giving her friend a wary look. “Will he do anything?”

“Do, did - did he ever!”

“It’s too much to hope that he’s fired her, isn’t it?”

“Not that far, but there was a stern warning. He gave her a bit of a lecture on impropriety of such things going on in a hospital, how it could damage the hospital’s reputation. I didn’t hear her mouthing off to him, either. I think she knows she’s been thrown off her high horse.” Ruby grinned, shaking Belle a bit by the arm she still had a hold on.

“And all it took was being caught in an affair,” Belle said wryly. It should have taken far, far less for something to be done. Still, at least Dr. Whale _had_ done something. The head nurse really must have been pushed off balance, if she didn’t bring up the administrator’s history of much the same thing. “It isn’t as if I’m opposed to her being censured. I’m pretty pleased of it, as a matter of fact, but-”

“I thought you might be,” Ruby said before Belle finished her thought.

“But… Isn’t it a _bit_ hypocritical for Dr. Whale to punish someone for something that you and he do? Frequently?”

“The difference is, neither he nor I are married to other people,” Ruby replied with raised brows and a curling little grin. “It’s a hypocrisy I’m willing to accept. There’s also the whole ‘do as I say, not as I do’ when it comes to administrators. It’s been the same with every single admin I’ve ever worked under.”

Belle gave her friend an amused smile, complete with raised eyebrows of her own.

Ruby gave a pretended look of scandal at the insinuation. “Whose hospital I’ve worked _in!_ You know precisely what I mean. Getting a bit of the other has changed you, Nurse French!” She laughed, reaching out to give Belle’s ribs a gentle poke.

“Is that all Dr. Whale said to her?” Belle pressed, hoping for more.

“Oh, he sent Nurse Mills home for the week.”

“The _week?_ The entire week? Are you sure?”

“Mmhmm,” Ruby hummed. “He told her she’s on one week’s suspension. She’s not to set foot in the hospital until next Friday.”

Belle sighed as the concept of a week’s peace settled on her. Could they _really_ have a solid week of days without the head nurse breathing down their necks? “Well. That would be a blessing, wouldn’t it.”

The ward door swung open, hitting Ruby’s backside and making her squawk in surprise. Dr. Whale peered in, blinking at the two of them standing there. Belle’s heart gave a startled thump at his sudden appearance.

“Ruby,” Dr. Whale said with a smile, walking into the room as she stepped away from the door. “I thought you’d gone home.”

Ruby didn’t miss a beat. “I decided to go ahead and wait until you were ready. I’ve been looking forward to you driving me home all day long.”

His smile grew a little broader. “I won’t be much longer. I’ve only to deliver a message, and we can go on.”

“Good,” Ruby said, the beam she gave him one of her most disarming. “Dinner won’t even have time to cool, then.”

“Nurse Nolan has the east night shift tonight, correct?” Dr. Whale asked, glancing past Ruby and Belle to scan around the ward.

Belle nodded, turning to point her out near the back. “She’s doing a bit of keeping watch. Mrs. Lapointe brought her husband a basket of comfort things from home, and Nurse Nolan is keeping an eye on Colonel Fitzroy.”

“May as well let her know now. I’ll only be another minute, Ruby,” Dr. Whale said before he stepped away. He walked a quick stride down the aisle to Nurse Nolan, motioning her forward.

Ruby looked to Belle, whispering, “Nurse Nolan handling head nurse duties? For a full week?”

“Mm, I had a feeling that’s where responsibilities would fall,” Belle said, pulling a bit of a doubtful expression. “She does well for a day or two at a time, but I’m not so sure about that much longer…”

Guin and Captain Lapointe turned the corner from Belle’s section of beds. She had a hand at her husband’s elbow, walking him to the washroom. He could get there on his own by now, but Belle didn’t think he’d told his wife as much. She understood that sometimes one needed to feel as though they were being of help, and it seemed likely that he knew the same.

“Colonel-” Nurse Nolan said, and Belle glanced back over her shoulder. The other nurse had caught Fitzroy as he headed up the aisle where she and Dr. Whale still talked. Nurse Nolan stepped into his path, evidently thinking to steer him back to his own space. “Colonel Fitzroy, please return to your bed.”

“No, thank you.” Fitzroy brushed her aside and continued toward the front of the ward. “I have something to do.”

He approached Guin where she waited at the washroom door, and Nurse Nolan trotted after him. Belle saw Guin bristle. She could see what was inevitably going to happen if Nurse Nolan was left to the situation on her own. Dr. Whale seemed to be watching the scene in utter surprise.

“You deserve what you’ve got now, being burdened by that oaf you jilted me for,” Fitzroy said, a hateful smirk twisting his mouth. 

“No one jilted you, Arthur.” Guin shook her head, trying to step away from the washroom and lead Fitzroy with her. “You were let go.”

“‘Let go’?” He snorted, following her. “It’s what you tell people, I’m sure. Can’t have anyone know they’ve got a slut teaching their children.”

Nurse Nolan wrapped a hand around the Colonel’s arm, attempting to urge him away. “Back to your bed, right now.”

“Lance and I are making a life together that you couldn’t begin to understand,” Guin said. “He doesn’t have a cruel bone in his body, unlike some men I’ve had the misfortune of knowing.”

“You don’t know the first thing about cruelty, you stupid woman.” Fitzroy laughed, taking a pair of quick steps forward to lean his face too near her own. “You’ll get to lead that disfigured thing around by the hand for the rest of that life, and it’s _everything_ you deserve. I’m not even sure I _would_ take you back now. Of course, you could beg, and we could see…”

“Colonel!” Nurse Nolan said, doing her best impression at being authoritative. “This is highly inappropriate! I must demand that you leave Mrs. Lapointe alone!”

Guin made a disgusted sound at his remarks. “I would rather be his wife and guide from now to eternity than be your punching bag for another instant!”

Belle ran across the front of the ward, the sound of her shoes echoing. Nurse Nolan’s efforts were having no effect at all. 

Colonel Fitzroy’s hand shot out, grabbing the collar of Guin’s dress in his fist. He twisted it in an effort to choke her. 

_“Stop!”_ Belle called out, closing her hand around Guin’s sleeve to pull her away from Fitzroy. She placed herself between them, turning to give him a push.

Suddenly - at last - there was Dr. Whale joining the fray. He took a handful of the back of the Colonel’s robe to pry the man away.

“Go back to your own bed, Colonel!” Belle told him firmly.

“I can do the Colonel here one better than that, Nurse French,” the doctor said, stepping between Fitzroy and Mrs. Lapointe, as well. “Colonel Fitzroy, I believe this is what one calls ‘the end of one’s rope.’” 

Fitzroy scoffed, glaring at everyone involved. “And what the hell do you mean by that?”

“I will be sure to recommend another facility for you, but you cannot remain in this one,” Dr. Whale told him. “I’ll notify your estate that you’re to be picked up in the morning.”

For a moment, the Colonel appeared startled. He recovered his snarl rather quickly, though. “You think being ousted from another cut-rate hospital will bother me?”

“I just witnessed you attacking a civilian in my hospital. At this point, I don’t care what bothers you.” The doctor waved Mr. Muis over, and the pair of them escorted Colonel Fitzroy back to his bed.

Belle fussed over Guin a bit, though she declared that she was just fine and in need of nothing more than her husband and a few minutes of peace. Before Ruby and Dr. Whale left for their now belated dinner, he had an orderly brought in from the north ward and stationed him in a chair next to Fitzroy’s bed to watch him until they could get him shipped off the next morning.

Belle was at last able to return to Rummond. He’d eaten more than half of his meal, and she took the tray to place it on his footlocker before sitting with a bounce on the side of his bed.

“What was that about?” he asked, tilting his head toward the front of the ward.

She turned, tucking one foot beneath her. “Colonel Fitzroy?”

“I heard the to-do over Fitzgerald from beginning to end,” Rummond said, a hint of a smirk in the corner of his mouth. “With not a little pleasure. I more meant what brought Nurse Lucas and the doctor onto the ward in the first place.”

“Oh!” Belle grinned, leaning in to tell him all she’d learned from Ruby before the commotion had begun.

Rummond listened carefully, though he seemed a little confused. She wasn’t sure whether his confusion was over the situation or her cheerfulness about it.

He fidgeted with the soft edge of his quilt. “It’ll pass. She’ll have the hospital right back under her thumb.”

“Aren’t we due a bit of good?” Belle asked, resting her hand on his knee. She understood well why he was so doubtful that good things could happen, but she also wanted him to find the same small flicker of relief in the head nurse’s suspension that she had.

“Being due something and actually receiving it rarely coincide,” he murmured.

She shook her head, smiling and reaching to take his hand without feeling the need to hide it. “Then enjoy it while it lasts. It can’t hurt to do that much.”


	111. My Darling Abide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt - adventure1937 prompted: _Perhaps the next time Neal visits his father he gives him a very special and secret drawing of the three of them, showing their future wedding day._

Neal fidgeted, twitching his feet and playing with one of his coat buttons. “Papa won’t be in that room?” 

“He won’t be anywhere near that room,” Belle promised as Horatio took them onto the road. “He’ll be in his bed, just as he always is.”

“Okay,” Neal said. He leaned into her side, his worry seeming at least slightly allayed.

She moved the two small packages from between them so that he could sit nearer, placing both on the other side of him. Their Saturday had been a busy one. Belle’s previous morning had been spent at the Halloran estate with Ariel and her father - a man so broad of shoulder that the doorways of the house had been widened for him. Ariel was more than agreeable to what Belle asked. The report sat safe in the bottom of her jewelry box, now, until she could get it to Dr. Hopper on Tuesday morning.

Afterward, Belle had gone back home for Neal and they’d gone into London for the day. He needed the distraction and the treat of a venture to the city. They’d gone around to the shops with a list provided by Mrs. Potts, and Belle encouraged him to find a thing or two for his father, as well. She’d taken him out for lunch at the V&A again, and he’d filled up so that he’d barely been able to put a dent in his dinner that evening.

“Uh-oh…” Neal murmured next to her. The coat button that he always fiddled with had come off. He held it in the palm of his mitten and looked up at Belle, stricken.

She’d seen it loosening; she should have sewn it back down, or else asked Mrs. Potts to do it. “It’s all right,” she said, putting her arm around him. “No harm done. It’ll go right back on. I just bet your Papa will sew it back on for you, if you ask.”

Neal nodded, but he frowned down at the brass button before tucking it into his pocket.

Belle held his hand as they made their way up the steps and down the corridor to the east ward, going in with him this morning rather than letting him go on by himself. She wanted to be certain that both he and Rummond were all right before she made her customary detour down to the kitchen.

It took only the sight of his Papa as she pushed open the door for Neal to let go of her hand. He ran, bouncing onto the bed and right into his father’s arms, clinging. Belle quietly left the picnic basket and presents on the footlocker. She smiled back when Rummond smiled at her over his son’s shoulder, tarrying a moment to revel in the sight of their happiness before she ducked out again to fetch a cup of tea.

Neal didn’t want to let go. He held onto his Papa, feeling warm and sleepy and as if everything was right just then. After a while, he took his arms from around his Papa’s neck and reached up to pat his cheeks.

“Okay?” Neal asked.

He got a smile in return for his question, and he knew that his Papa would answer, “I’m all right,” before he did. “What about you, duckling? Are you all right?”

Though Neal nodded, he confessed quietly, “Bad dreams. Sometimes.”

“Every night?”

“Not _every_ night. Some nights. But I go to Belle and they go away.”

His Papa kissed his face and wrapped him up for another tight hug that squashed his cap right off his head. It seemed like much more than a week since he’d gotten the particular sort of hug that his Papa gave on Sunday mornings, and he cuddled in close to enjoy it while it lasted.

Careful hands helped him out of his outdoor things, and he left the safety of his Papa’s lap just long enough to find the drawings in their picnic basket. There were more than a dozen, but the one on the very top was the one that he was most excited to show.

“Is this Belle’s garden?” Rummond asked as his son got settled in his lap once more.

“Yup!” Neal chirped, leaning back against his Papa’s stomach.

He’d asked Mrs. Potts where people got married. “In a church, generally,” she’d told him. “Though I suppose people get married wherever they like, don’t they?”

“It’s Belle’s back garden, with everything green and all the flowers open, so it’s pretty for you,” he explained.

“Who are these folk, then?” his father asked.

“That’s you,” Neal said, pointing first to the figure on the right, decked out in a dark suit and the red tie that his father had worn over Christmas. He then pointed out the figure on the left, wearing a dress simply outlined in pencil without having been colored in. “And that’s Belle.”

“And who is this?” Rummond asked of the smaller figure standing between them.

“That’s me,” Neal said, smiling bashfully. “I can be there, can’t I?”

“Be where?”

“When you get married.”

Rummond’s heart felt too big for his ribcage to hold. “Married?”

“Aren’t you and Belle going to get married?” Neal tilted his head back, looking expectantly up at his father.

“Son, I- I-” 

“Don’t you want to?”

“Well, that’s-”

“I think Belle wants to,” Neal declared.

Flabbergasted and startled by his son’s choice of conversation, Rummond blinked down at the little boy. Neal’s curious look didn’t waver.

“I think you should,” Neal went on, telling his Papa the same he’d told Belle. “You like her, don’t you?”

“I do,” Rummond managed, giving his son a smile. “Very much.”

Neal beamed as he pulled the drawing away from the rest, raising it up toward his father’s face. “Then you should get married. Will you?”

Rummond wondered if Neal understood, or whether he simply had the impression that marriage was what took place when two people spent time together. He wrapped his arms around his son, hugging him close and dropping a kiss on top of his head.

“I don’t know,” he told Neal softly. “I don’t know, but I hope so.”

Neal wiggled happily, satisfied with his father’s answer for now. “I hope so, too.”

 _“If_ we did,” Rummond said, “then you would most certainly be there. I wouldn’t have a wedding without you.”

“Okay,” Neal said. He gave a decisive nod, looking at his drawing again. “Good.”

When Belle returned with tea, Rummond slipped the page from his son’s hands and placed it at the back of the thin stack of papers. “Tell me about the rest, hm?”

“Good morning.” she greeted, her hand resting on his shoulder as she set the cup down. 

Her smallest finger grazed his skin next to the collar of his gown. He wasn’t quite certain whether it was purposeful, but her hand left his shoulder far too quickly, a stroke of fading warmth in its wake.

“Good morning,” Rummond echoed, giving Belle what was perhaps a lovestruck grin.

She sat so that her hip touched his knee. It wasn’t enough - though, if he were being honest, it was _never_ enough - but he appreciated that she made the effort to keep subtle contact.

“Did you give your Papa what we bought for him yesterday?” Belle asked, reaching over to pat Neal’s leg.

“I waited,” Neal said. He leaned to set his drawings on the table, on top of his father’s book. “Can I now?”

“Bought for me?” Rummond asked. “You needn’t have got anything for me, either of you.”

She turned, stretching to take the pair of small packages from the top of his footlocker. “We were in London, anyway, and Neal wanted something to cheer you up.”

“Oh, I’ve the two best things for cheering up right here,” he said, giving his son another squeeze and smiling up at Belle.

Holding the packages out to him, each in a hand, she smiled and shook her head. “Well, open them anyway.”

He took the smaller of the two first. It was a thin, white box around the size of his hand, and when he pried the lid off, he found two rows of six chocolates.

“I choose- chose- ch…” Neal looked to Belle, the word tapering off in his uncertainty.

“Chose,” she supplied with a whisper.

“I chose that!” he declared. “They’re toffee inside.”

Rummond grinned. “I’d a feeling they might be.”

“Now open this one,” Neal said, taking the other package and offering it insistently as his father put the lid back on the box.

The second was wrapped in brown paper, and Neal pulled the end of the blue ribbon that held it closed as soon as his father took it. Rummond folded the paper back to find a pair of winter slippers. They were gray felt with a few paisleys stitched on top in black, and had soft leather soles - nicer than the hospital issue slippers, and he was certain that they would be far warmer, as well.

Neal looked up at his Papa, his smile bright. “I chose those, too!”

“Someday soon, I’m going to shower you both with everything you could possibly want,” Rummond promised, fighting back the stinging behind his eyes. He wouldn’t cry over a pair of slippers. He refused to.

“You can shower Neal with anything you like, but speaking for myself, I have nearly all I need.” The only thing she could wish for herself was Rummond thriving and well enough to leave the hospital, and that was nothing that could be bought.

“Mm,” he hummed. “I suppose I’ll have to find things to please you, then.”

“You please me,” she told him softly over Neal’s head. “All I need are you and Neal. Don’t worry about the rest.”

“Thank you,” Rummond said, holding Belle’s gaze, and he squeezed his son again until the boy had giggled himself limp.

By virtue of this little soul that he loved more than life itself and the woman beside him, who loved him more than he’d ever imagined possible, his heart had never felt so full.

Visitors and the day shift began to arrive, and the noise on the ward gradually increased. Neal eventually moved over to sit between them, asking for his drawings so that he could go on telling about them. Rummond hoped that his son would lose interest before getting back to the very last in the stack. It wasn’t a matter that he wanted pushed in front of Belle, and particularly not in a way that might pressure her.

Nurse Nolan came in with her arms full of files, appearing beyond frazzled, her color high as she snipped at Nurse Boyd over something. Nurse Boyd took a good half of the folders and left the ward with her.

After not yet two full days, the other nurses were having to throw in together to help Nurse Nolan, who had yet to prove herself suited to taking the helm. Being Nurse Mills’ right hand had apparently not come with guidance or ability in a head nurse’s responsibilities. Thus far, she struggled with paperwork and duties, all. Belle hoped that she would find her stride soon. It would be lovely, if someone could show Dr. Whale what the hospital could be like with a head nurse who treated patients and staff with decency.

Belle returned her attention to Neal. She found him pressing himself against his father’s side, explanations of his artwork having quieted. 

“Neal?” Rummond asked gently.

“Darling?” Belle lifted a hand to pet the back of his hair. “What’s the matter?”

“Is that other nurse here?” he asked, his voice suddenly meek. “The one that put Papa in the room?”

“No. No, she isn’t here today,” Belle assured him. 

“I don’t like her. She’s not nice,” Neal whispered up to her.

Rummond rubbed his son’s back. He made a smothered sound between a snort and a laugh. “From the mouths of babes.”

Belle didn’t reply, but her eyebrows rose in agreement.

For a while, Neal attempted to go back to talking about his drawings. He told his Papa about how the lake on the way to school had frozen over completely, and how he’d seen someone skating on it the week before. His enthusiasm wavered until he finally handed his papers to Belle and crawled into his father’s lap again.

He closed his eyes, listening as Belle and his Papa talked about a doctor named Cough and a nurse that they didn’t name. Belle said something about being very careful with locks, and his Papa agreed. He snuggled down, giving in to how sleepy he felt.

“In the elec-” Rummond glanced down at Neal. Just because the boy’s eyes were shut didn’t mean he couldn’t hear. “In _that_ room? That’s a bit…ghoulish.”

She wrinkled her nose a bit. “Isn’t it? You’d think any other room would be preferable.”

“Or, as both can actually leave the hospital, somewhere outside of it,” Rummond muttered.

Belle reached to rest a hand on his knee for a moment, understanding what lay beneath his mild grousing. “Wouldn’t that be ideal?”

“Papa,” Neal said, proving himself to be precisely as asleep as his father suspected. “I need help with my coat.”

“Do you? Where are you going?” Rummond teased, giving his son’s nose a gentle tweak.

Neal smiled a bit, dropping his head back against his father’s chest. “Nooo,” he said, his mood lifting a tad. “My button came off.”

“Ah. Well, that’s something I can fix.” He took the housewife kit from his bedside table drawer and brought his son’s coat back from where he’d laid it on the bunk behind Belle. “Where is that button at, then?”

Neal stuck a hand into the coat’s front pocket and pulled the brass button out along with a few crumpled paraffin papers that he quickly stuffed back in. “Here,” he said, holding it up an inch before his Papa’s face. 

Rummond took his son’s hand, grabbing fingers as well as button. “You’ll need to let go if you want me to sew it back on, you know.”

“You’re holding on!” Neal said, his smile growing. He wiggled his hand, unable to pull it away. “Belle?”

“Oh, you’re asking her to team up on me, are you?”

Neal swung his arm, but his Papa held on. A belly laugh came out before he could stop it. “Belle!”

“Now, Rummond, if his fingers are attached to it, then you can’t sew it on. He could never button the rest!” Belle said, joining in, and Neal dissolved into giggles again.

He at last let Neal’s fingers free, and he was left with the button in his hand. He began sewing it back on, sitting with his son as well as the coat in his lap.

Neal watched his Papa’s hands work, following the needle as it disappeared and reappeared through the fabric. He had a memory of something like this - being in his Papa’s lap mending something. He tried his hardest to make the whole thing come back to him, but it was far too fuzzy.

After a while, he asked softly, “Papa… when can we go home?”

“Home?” Rummond repeated, doing his best not to frown as he looked up at Belle. If Neal wanted to go… “You want Belle to call Horatio around?”

“No, _home,”_ Neal said, trying to make it clearer what he meant.

Rummond’s insides twisted. “Do you mean to see your mum?”

Neal shook his head quickly. “No, _our_ home.”

Reaching up, Rummond smoothed back his son’s unruly hair. A wayward cowlick curled right back into place. “You remember home?”

“I remember,” he said, leaning back against his Papa again. “When can we go?”

“You don’t like it here, with Belle?” Rummond asked. 

Neal thought for a few seconds. “I like living in Belle’s house.” He looked over at her, not wanting to hurt her feelings. “I like Belle and Mrs. Potts and everybody. But I miss home with you, too.”

Rummond met Belle’s eyes with a helpless look.

“Your Papa can’t quite yet,” she said, to keep him from having to be the one who told his son no. “He still has a bit of healing to do.”

“Because of his leg?” Neal asked, sounding unsure.

There was a moment of hesitation from both Rummond and Belle before he said, “In part. We’ll go home, duckling… but not today. Not too soon. And not that particular house. Will that bother you?”

Neal nibbled at one side of his lip, considering that. “It doesn’t have to be that house,” he decided. “But somewhere.”

“We’ll go home somewhere,” Rummond promised. “Somewhere not too far, I hope.”

He finished sewing the button and gave the thread a pair of secure knots before snipping it. Putting the needle safely away and dropping the kit back into the drawer, he held the coat up and showed it to his son. “How that?”

“Just right,” Neal said, giving the button a tug. “Thank you!”

Rummond dropped the coat over his son and hugged him tight, bringing a gleeful squawk out of the little boy. He loosened his embrace and Neal pulled the coat away from his face, his hair ruffled so that it made Belle cluck her tongue.

She laughed. “Oh, if Mrs. Potts saw you, she’d be after you with a comb and a pot of Lumiere’s pomade.”

“No!” Neal’s eyes widened at the idea, and he pulled the coat back up over his head. From inside, he said, “Papa!” and squeaked as his father’s arms squeezed him again.


	112. Being Loved Brings A Warmth

Rummond woke to Lieutenant Hargreaves complaining about freezing off what he considered vital parts of his anatomy. This was his first clue that the furnace was out.

Something as yet unidentified had gone awry in the night, and the inside of the hospital was very nearly as cold as the outside. Nurses hurried around in the early morning to hand out extra blankets while a repairman was called in. For once, Rummond didn’t need one. His bunk was as warm as could be. It was only when he left it that matters changed. While his slippers kept his feet warm, his robe wasn’t at all heavy enough to keep out such cold.

One of the few saving graces in the misery of the frigid ward was the fact that Nurse Mills wasn’t present to make it worse. The head nurse would be out for a full and blessed three more days before they would be forced to contend with her again. Rummond wasn’t certain what she might do when she returned, but he enjoyed the lack of looming threat while it lasted.

After patients understood that there was nothing to be done about the furnace until the repairman arrived and did his work, and after unlimited hot tea was provided, the cold seemed to send the hospital into a torpor. Patients beneath their blankets and nurses in their capes alike limited their movements around the ward in an effort to keep themselves warm.

Belle was off the ward more than on for the first couple of hours of her shift. She attempted to find out just when repairs might be done and what might be wrong with the furnace in the first place, but the usual repairman who came ’round couldn’t give her an answer on either. Returning to the ward, she decided to do _something_ to distract herself from the truly ridiculous temperature indoors.

Most of the servicemen in her section were fine and occupying themselves. Reyes was busily knitting and Strand had Nurse Halloran perched on the edge of his bed while he sketched her for perhaps the hundredth time. Lieutenant Hargreaves had a book open on his lap, but he seemed to grumble more than read. Rummond lay bundled up in his bed, quite awake and following her with his eyes as soon as she stepped back onto the ward. Though he didn’t look terribly unhappy, he did look as though boredom might be eating him alive.

“You haven’t frozen to your mattress, have you?” she asked, pulling her coat closer around her as she sat on the side of his bed.

“Not yet,” Rummond muttered. “I suspect I might before the day is done. Any word on when the furnace will be up?”

“None,” she replied with an apologetic look. “He’s only just started having a look at it.”

He groaned, turning his face in toward the pillow to warm his nose.

Belle leaned a bit closer, speaking so that no one else could hear. “I would get in there with you and help, if I could.”

He looked quickly up at her, a stunned smile tugging at his lips. “Well, I’d be lying if I said _that_ didn’t warm me up a bit.”

“I would hope so.” She grinned, giving his hip a pat as she sat back. “It should be fixed rather quickly, though. I can’t think the patients will have to suffer through another day and night this way.”

“It wouldn’t be quite as bad with a hot meal in our stomachs.”

“I know.” Belle frowned a bit. Breakfast had gone cold in the time it took for the trolley to make it from the kitchen to the ward. No one was happy with it, but there was nothing to be done for it, either.

“Isn’t your fault, though,” Rummond said.

She found him giving her a concerned look, and that was enough of that. She wasn’t the one needing worrying over. 

“Look here,” she said, shifting to move farther back on the bed. “Lying here thinking about the cold isn’t going to do anything to relieve it.”

Rummond raised an eyebrow. “What are you suggesting I do instead, then? Star jumps?”

“We could play whist,” Belle suggested, overlooking his quip.

He considered it. “We’d need four to play.”

She looked across to Hargreaves. “Lieutenant, do you know how to play whist?”

“I do.” Jefferson perked up a bit. “Putting together a game?”

“Suppose so,” Rummond said. He sat up, deciding he may as well. “If we can get a fourth.”

Hargreaves, already unfolding himself to get up, looked to the other side of Rummond’s bunk, nodding that way. 

Belle turned, looking to the Corporal. “Reyes?” she said, and he looked up from his knitting. “Do you know how to play whist?”

He shook his head. “N-never have played c-cards much.”

“We’ll teach you,” she told him, waving him over. “Come on, you’ll be my partner.”

Rummond gave an indignant cluck of his tongue. “You’re pairing me with Hargreaves?”

“Come now, Captain, we’ll beat the trousers off them,” Hargreaves cheerfully declared. He swung his extra blanket around his shoulders as one might a cape and parked himself on the other side of Rummond’s bunk, deliberately ignoring the look that he received for it.

Belle encouraged Reyes a little more, and he at last went to fetch a chair. “If you’re looking for trousers anywhere around, I’m sure you’ve chosen the wrong game to join,” she told the Lieutenant, her lips pressed together in a puckered smile over her own flippant remark.

“You see?” Hargreaves said, swatting Rummond’s shoulder with the back of his hand and getting another look of irritation for it. “Our job’s half done already!”

Reyes set his chair down as quietly as possible and took a seat, draping his own blanket over his lap.

“The cards?” Belle requested. She held her hand out to Rummond.

He pulled the pack of playing cards from his drawer and placed them in her hand, holding onto them when she tried to take them.

“You’re welcome,” he said, grinning as he let them go. 

She responded with an overly sweet, “Thank you,” before turning to Reyes. “All right, then. You know the suits, don’t you?” 

He nodded so that she would go on.

“We won’t know one another’s cards, but our teams will be competing to take more tricks than the other. Those are points,” she explained. “Starting off, you choose the trumps. That’s the high suit that’ll outrank all the rest if you lay it down, no matter which suit is on the table. The person to the left of the dealer lays down the first card. Captain Gold will deal this first hand, so Lieutenant Hargreaves will start. Everyone else must follow the suit of that card, and the aim is to lay down a card higher than all the rest. Whoever takes the trick takes the cards on the table and lays down a card of their choice, and so on.”

“What if I d-d-don’t have any of the suit b-being laid down?” Reyes asked.

“Then you lay down the low card of any suit you want, to get rid of it. If you have a trumps card, you use it and you take the trick automatically. Players choose a certain number of tricks to play to, and the team that makes it first wins. We’ll start at ten, just in case we don’t have time for a longer game. Sound good?” she asked, looking to Rummond and the Lieutenant. Both men nodded their agreement. Belle patted Reyes’ arm. “We’ll go slowly on the first hand so that you can see how it’s played.”

Rummond was a bit amazed at how good a time he had. He’d prepared himself for frustration and frayed nerves, but there was laughter and a fine dose of teasing, and he had to admit to himself that he felt good afterward. He and Hargreaves won the first hand by a wide margin, but Reyes asked questions throughout and learned quickly, and he and Belle won the second very handily.

The Corporal started the third hand with his highest card - a nine of spades - and Rummond laid down an ace in response. 

Jefferson cackled. “Oh, I could kiss you, Gold,” he said before laying down a two to dispense of the low card. It was the only one he had in the suit. They took the trick by virtue of his teammate’s card.

“You save your lips for your wife,” Belle teased as Rummond gathered the four cards from the middle of the blanket. 

“Ah, yes. Mustn’t violate prior claim,” Jefferson said, sending Rummond a saucy wink.

Rummond gave him a look of begrudging amusement.

“No, no, please don’t beg,” Jefferson said as though he were entirely regretful over some imaginary denial of a kiss. “My lips have only ever been Alice’s, and that’s the way they shall remain.”

Belle looked up from her cards. “You’ve never kissed anyone else?”

He smiled, shaking his head. “Alice was my first kiss, and God willing, she’ll be my only.”

“Th-that’s sweet,” Reyes said quietly.

“Who was yours, Reyes?” Belle asked.

“Oh, I- I-” He shrugged and shook his head, placing his complete attention on his hand. “I d-don’t want-”

She reached over and patted his arm again. “You don’t have to.”

“And who was yours, nursie?” Lieutenant Hargreaves asked, giving her a sidelong look and a smirk to go with it. “Childhood sweetheart? Mysterious officer while you were gallivanting with the VAD?”

Belle laughed shortly. “Neither. It was nothing so dramatic. There was a school Christmas pageant and a boy upon whom I was rather keen. Well, one of the heavenly hosts kissed one of the Magi and sent him running offstage, and that was the beginning and end of my first kiss.”

Rummond listened, watching her through his eyelashes, though he stayed well clear of questioning. He allowed Hargreaves to do so for him.

With a low whistle, the Lieutenant asked, “How old were these wee babes?”

“Fourteen. It was quite innocent, I assure you,” she said, glancing up at Rummond, whose smile she spied as he averted his eyes to his cards. “A first and a last. He turned out very unpleasant, once his friends caught wind of it.”

“Nurse French!” Hargreaves feigned a gasp. “How forward.”

“There is a reason I’ve never been accused of being afflicted with shyness,” she said, laying down a queen of diamonds and bringing a grumble from the Lieutenant as she took the trick. She laid down a ten of hearts and looked to Rummond. “Captain, I believe it’s your turn.”

“That would be Reyes’ turn, as he’s to your left,” he replied, studying his hand far too carefully and pretending to reorder it.

“You know that’s not what I meant.” She watched him, wondering if he realized how he seemed to be attempting to hide. “First kiss?”

“Her name was Katie,” Rummond said, shrugging one shoulder. His head remained tilted a bit toward it. “I was seventeen. She was around the same.”

Belle waited for a moment, but he didn’t continue. “And? You can’t just leave it there,” she said, reaching across to poke his knee. “I want to hear the rest.”

“And I,” Jefferson chimed in.

“Katie Robillard,” he went on, murmuring the name to his cards. “She was American. Her family was visiting her mother’s parents in France, and she’d gone down to have a look at the sea. My ship was in port and I’d gone dockside to find a bookstore. Crossed paths with her outside of a dress shop. She said she liked my uniform.”

“How did that kiss come about?” Belle prodded again. 

“I meant to go back to my ship. Never did do much on leave. She talked me into playing tour guide. I showed her to a café and had tea with her, wound up spending the day walking around.” He’d worried about her wandering town by herself, truthfully. It wasn’t a bad place, but there were always the unsavory sort congregating around the docks looking for opportunities to cause harm. “I delivered her to her grandparents’ house in the evening, and she, ah- she kissed me quite soundly before hurrying in.”

“It was nice?” Belle asked.

“It was nice.” His face warmed a bit. He shrugged again. “Startling, but nice.”

She gave him a warm look when he finally raised his head to meet her eyes. “You know, I just _bet_ you cut a lovely figure in your naval uniform. Would that I could have seen.”

Rummond downright flushed.

“I’m certain he did,” Hargreaves agreed with a cheeky smile.

“And since you’ve brought up uniforms, I did notice you’re out of yours,” Rummond said. A smirk formed in the corner of his mouth as he nudged attention away from her compliment.

Belle looked down at her dress and apron, then back up at him in confusion. “I wear the same every day.”

He pointed a casual finger around at the other nurses, each of those on shift wearing a dark blue cape that occasionally flashed its red lining. Belle, on the other hand, wore her usual coat, its buttons undone so that she could get to her apron pockets.

“Where is your cape, Nurse French?” Rummond asked, an arch lilt to his voice.

“I lost it years back.” She shook her head, choosing a card to lay down. “I’ve plenty of warm coats, so I never took the trouble to replace it.”

“How would the very picture of responsibility lose her nurse’s cape, I wonder?”

“I was stationed at a field hospital near Champagne during the first winter of the war,” Belle began to explain. “It was snowing, and the stretcher bearers were having a hard time keeping up with wounded. A few nurses volunteered to go out and try to help until men could be retrieved. I was treating a boy - he’d lost a great deal of blood and he was freezing to death, so I tucked my cape around him to try and keep him warm. I simply lost track. It never made it back to me.”

Her answer to his observation was nowhere near as amusing as he’d imagined it to be. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“I know you didn’t, silly man,” Belle told him, giving him another smile.

“Nurse French?” Strand called from across the aisle.

She handed Reyes her cards. “Don’t let these two sharps sneak a look,” she teased as she stood to go and check on her patient.

Rummond stared at his cards without seeing them. Belle’s story turned over and over in his mind. He closed his cards and laid them face down in his lap. “Hargreaves. Do you have an envelope and stamp, perchance?”

“Most certainly,” Hargreaves replied with a nod. He tucked his cards into his robe pocket before sliding off the bed to retrieve the requested bits of stationery. Handing them over, he took his spot back as Rummond slipped them into his bedside table drawer. “May I ask what you intend for those?”

Rummond shook his head, smiling and reordering his cards. “Thank you, but you may not.”

It took Belle less than fifteen minutes to tend Commander Strand. The scar across the end of his missing leg bothered him, and Nurse Halloran asked to be shown how to relieve the pain of it. Belle guided her through using a smidge of Mentholatum liniment and a firm touch to aid in limbering the hardened scar tissue.

The rest of their whist game took less time, once she’d returned. Rummond and Hargreaves won again, though far more narrowly than their first win. 

“Captain,” Belle said with a bit of singsong to the word. “You wouldn’t mind Reyes and Hargreaves keeping your cards to play on their own for a while, would you?”

Rummond gave her a suspicious look. “I take it you’ve finished playing,” he said. Then, “I take it _I’ve_ finished playing?”

She flicked a look in the direction of the ward doors. “If you wish to play another hand, you certainly may. I simply thought you might appreciate a chance to warm yourself.”

His eyes widened. _Now?_ he mouthed.

Belle pressed both lips between her teeth to keep from beaming too broadly. She mouthed back, _If you want._

The nod that Rummond gave her was barely enough to be a gesture at all, but it was enough. She passed her cards over to Lieutenant Hargreaves.

“I have some tasks off the ward I need to attend to,” she said, turning to move off the bed again.

Rummond cleared his throat, announcing, “I’ve need of the privy. Excuse me.” He took his cane and swung his legs over the side of his bunk, stepping into his slippers.

Jefferson rolled his eyes. Subtle they were not. “Mmhm. You kids have fun, now.”

“If anyone asks-” Belle began.

“I saw nothing, I know nothing,” the Lieutenant promised.

Reyes looked from one retreating person to the other. “Where are they g-going?”

Belle headed for the ward door and Rummond went in the direction of the privy, as was the pretext. She needed to retrieve her purse and stop by the nurse’s washroom before she could meet him.

“Anton, my boy,” she heard Lieutenant Hargreaves say as she left as though she simply had some urgent task. “Birds and bees, dear. Birds and bees. How do you feel about gin rummy?”

Rummond looked back before Belle reached the doors. She was hurrying out, and the sway of her hips made his attention slide sideways. He had to force his intent back to reaching the privy, rather than following her as soon as he saw her. He spent a good and anxious five minutes closed in the privy before calling it good enough.

She was waiting for him just inside the storage room door when he went in, and he thought he might have half swallowed his tongue with the start of it.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed as she closed the door silently. He laughed softly, and she laughed with him.

Belle took hold of the front of his robe and stepped closer, pulling the two of them together. She tilted her head back, and he obliged her request for a kiss. It was absolutely freezing in the storage room, but the chill ceased to exist rather quickly when she felt the tip of his tongue stroke across the roof of her mouth.

She nipped at his lower lip and pulled back. “Go. Go on. Into the back,” she told him breathlessly. “I’ll lock up.”

With one quick and stolen kiss, he stepped away from her. She locked the door and checked it twice, giving the handle a few good tugs to be certain. Much as she appreciated the head nurse’s enforced absence, that particular situation had instilled in her what could only be a healthy amount of caution.

Belle followed him into the back of the room, shrugging out of her coat and laying it over a box. She lifted one foot and then the other to get rid of her shoes for a little while, letting them land next to Rummond’s slippers. He had the blanket spread out and he sat on one side of it, holding his hand out for her to take.

She grabbed his hand and held onto it as she knelt next to him. They didn’t get to touch the warmth of skin very often these days, or for very long when they did manage a graze of hands or a brush of fingers against a cheek. She wanted to get as much out of their time together as she could. 

Belle rested her hands on his thighs and kissed him again, rocking into him with abbreviated kisses that sucked at his lower lip and had him breathing hard and his eyes dark by the time she stopped to lie down on the blanket. She pulled him down with her, lying side by side with him. Her fingers went to his belt and pulled free the half bow that secured it.

“Right to it?” he asked. “You’re sure? No… leading up?”

“I don’t need any leading up just now,” she said as she opened the front of his robe. “Unless you’d like a bit?”

He shook his head, wrapping his arm around her. She felt his fingertips run up and down her back, between the straps of her apron. “Anything you’d wish, love.”

Belle smiled and pushed the side of his robe behind him, curling her hand over his hip. “Oh, we can go right ahead, if you’re asking me.”

Rummond brought his face nearer hers again, providing softer, nuzzling kisses that rubbed his nose gently against hers as she inched his hospital gown up. The urgency in her calmed to an even-keeled throb of need.

She found the button at the front of his underwear and slipped it open, and she pushed the waistband down over his hip. They worked them down and at last off his feet with a bit of wiggling and a good deal of amused effort between them. Belle reached down and gathered her skirt and petticoats up, tugging and arranging them as flat as she could above her waist, and engaged in some similar wiggling to get out of her own drawers.

Belle snugged herself close to Rummond. She wanted more - more contact, more of his skin pressed against hers - but that didn’t seem like the best of plans with no furnace and a hospital where ice would be in no danger of melting. The part of her skirts that weren’t necessary to stay drawn up high for her intents, she draped back over their legs. 

The body heat imparted to her clothing gave Rummond an initial shiver. She was sharing her warmth with him in more ways than one.

He wrapped his arms more tightly around her, pressing kisses along the soft line of her jaw and enjoying the feeling of her silk stockings against his legs. One stockinged foot ran along his calf and up the back of his thigh, until she slid her leg to rest curled over his hip. If he hadn’t been ready and eager for her, the sensation of that alone could have done it.

She tilted her hips slowly against him, simply rubbing them against one another for a moment. His kisses stuttered and then stopped as he buried his face in her neck and made the loveliest sound - a soft, rumbling groan that reverberated through her, making her leg tighten around him.

He shifted his hips against her in return. She wished that he would ask, that he would tell her in words what he needed. And she understood why the reluctance for such an unhindered voice was something he still hung onto. They could work on that, but she didn’t have the time to tease it out of him today.

Belle worked a hand between them, navigating fabric to get to him. His breath quickened further when she took him in hand. She shifted her hips and drew her leg up a little higher against his side to find the proper angle and pull them flush together when she had.

The intensity of her warmth when she guided him into her sent every thought fleeing his mind until there was nothing but Belle. His head reeled, and he closed his eyes as he did his level best to recall how to breathe.

“God, _Belle._ Belle…” he whispered, wanting her name in his mouth.

It took a few moments for either to move at all. They began to rock slowly against one another, finding the right rhythm of back and forth. She slid a hand up his chest, running the backs of her fingers along his jaw before slipping them up to the nape of his neck. She heard a choked whimper at the back of his throat as she curled her fingers in his hair, and the motion of his hips stuttered.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, and they were so close that her lips brushed his when she spoke. “I didn’t mean to pull.”

“No-” Rummond shook his head urgently. He hesitated, but finally managed to ask something of her. “Don’t stop?” he breathed.

She tightened her hand in his hair and he made the sound again. It went through her like a wave of heat along her skin, and she felt her need for him climb impossibly higher.

“There, sweetheart… Come on, right there,” she gasped as his rhythm began to fall apart and his hips hitched into her with greater desperation. She pressed her heel against the back of his thigh to change her angle again, getting friction just where she craved it.

She felt his body go tense. He thrust into her twice more before he buried his face against her shoulder and went still. She felt him finish - the pulse of him inside her, felt the warmth of it. The sensation sent her toppling right over the edge after him.

Rummond felt Belle shudder against him, her breath drawing sharp against his cheek in time with the way her body clutched at him. He tightened his arms around her, holding her close, and turned his head so that he could brush kisses over the side of her neck as she came down. After a while, he turned onto his back, taking her with him so that she was wrapped around and pillowed against him.

He pushed through a great tangle of apprehension in his chest, saying almost shyly, “I want to marry you. When everything is- is right again.”

As soon as he said it, he was terrified of how she might react. What if that wasn’t what she wanted out of all this? What if she didn’t want to marry? What if bringing it up pushed her away? He knew for a fact that he wasn’t good enough for her, but he didn’t want it to end. 

Belle moved, planting a hand against his chest to push herself up, and for one terrible moment, he knew that he was right. He’d gone too far in what he’d asked.

Then she smiled, wide and dazzling. Her other hand curled at the side of his neck, her thumb stroking against the sensitive pulse point.

The thought of it made her stomach flip with excitement. There was no hurry, though. There couldn’t be a hurry just now. She wouldn’t push.

“I would be agreeable. If you asked,” she said, her glee only barely contained.

Rummond’s heart beat as though it tried to escape his ribcage. “You would want that?”

“I would.” Belle leaned down, kissing him with a force that she hoped told him just how much. “I would _love_ that.”

“You would?”

“I want us to be a family. I mean… we are, aren’t we?”

An answering smile bloomed across his face. “We are.”

“But properly,” she said. “Making it official.”

He nodded. “We need that. Don’t we?”

There was a creaking sound in the vents, and the smell of newly stoked furnace came through. 

Belle rested against Rummond’s chest again, tucking her head beneath his chin. She could feel the way his breath hiccupped softly beneath her chest. “We absolutely need that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays! Have a present of fluffy smut. <3


	113. No Matter How Small

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt - _anonymousnerdgirl said: BtFtB prompt: Neal has a session with Archie. He talks a little about his Mum and Belle, but mostly he's frightened about his papa being locked up in a room. It brought up his own bad memories of being shut up in the washroom. Maybe Neal has questions about how his papa is sick and about the time he saw him during the bad down swing. He's bound to be curious._

Tentatively, and with hands stuffed into his pockets, Neal walked around Dr. Hopper’s office. He looked at the bookshelf, rising up onto his toes and tilting his head to read the spines of the books - or the ones that he could sound out, at least. They were the sort of books that Belle read when she wasn’t reading to him. He peered into the glass-front cabinet over in the opposite corner, then went back across to the window to look outside. It hadn’t snowed for a couple of days, but there was still snow on the ground and in the trees, and it was _cold._ Too cold even to play outside without his face and hands hurting, now.

The doctor sat in a chair in front of his Papa and Belle where they sat on the sofa. Neal had been sitting between them, but Dr. Hopper had told him that he could get up and have a look around, if it would make him feel better. He _did_ want to. There was too much to see in the doctor’s office for him to not feel an urge to explore. He’d been good, though, and kept away from all the nice things, until Dr. Hopper invited him to look.

“He’s spent all of his appointments thus far stationed rather closely between the two of you,” Neal heard the doctor saying. “I think becoming more comfortable in his environment, taking the mystery out of the nooks and crannies of it, might help him to relax a bit.”

Neal turned to go back, and something on Dr. Hopper’s desk caught his eye. He’d looked at them from across the room, but he was being allowed to walk around and look closer… 

“You can touch them,” the doctor said, and Neal jumped, feeling caught. “You won’t break them.”

“Are you sure?” Neal asked, casting a look from the doctor to the crickets.

Dr. Hopper nodded. “Quite sure.”

He took a hand from his pocket and picked one of the crickets up _so_ carefully. It was brass, with the tiniest pieces of crystal for eyes, and the legs were delicate enough that Neal was afraid he might break it just by holding it. He put it back.

“They’re pretty,” he said.

“Thank you.”

Neal looked up at the doctor. “You like crickets a lot?”

“Yes, I do.” Dr. Hopper nodded again.

“Why?” Neal asked, wide-eyed and curious. 

“They’re good luck,” the doctor told him. “And I happen to enjoy the sound they make.”

Neal smiled, satisfied with the doctor’s reasoning. “I like lizards.”

“Do you?” Dr. Hopper returned his smile. “Well, lizards are fine creatures, as well. I can see why you like them.”

Deciding he’d looked around all he wanted for now, Neal went back to the sofa. He climbed up, wiggling into his spot between his Papa and Belle again, where it was warm and felt safer.

“Nurse French tells me that you might be having nightmares again?” the doctor asked.

Neal wiggled a bit more, leaning against his Papa. His Papa put an arm around him. “Sometimes,” he said. “Not too many.”

“How many are too many?”

He had to think about it before answering. “Every night is too many.”

“Do you feel like talking about your nightmares?” Dr. Hopper encouraged.

Neal took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

“You can talk about them,” his Papa said. “No one will ever be angry with you here.”

He looked up to find his Papa and Belle looking back at him. It wasn’t uncomfortable, though, the way they did. He never felt _stared at_ when they looked at him.

“Everybody goes away,” he murmured, looking down at his feet where they propped up on the sofa cushion. “In lots of them, everybody goes away and I’m alone.”

“Where do they go away to?” Dr. Hopper asked.

Neal shrugged a little. “They just go away and leave me by myself. I can’t find anybody when I need them. And I call, and nobody is there.” He took another deep breath, this one feeling like it couldn’t make it all the way in.

The doctor gave him a moment before going on. “Is that something you’ve felt outside of nightmares? When you were awake?”

“When I was with Mum,” he said quietly.

“Do you ever feel that _now_ when you’re awake?”

Neal shook his head. “There’s always somebody now. There’s always Mrs. Potts or Belle. If I have a bad dream, I can go to Belle, or if she’s at work overnight, I can go to Mrs. Potts. And Papa is always here when I can come see him.” He frowned, his mouth twisting a bit to one side in an effort not to. “Except that day when they put Papa in c- con- that room by himself. I had a bad dream about that, too.”

The doctor guided him along when he didn’t go on. “Can you tell me about that one?”

“They put Papa in that room alone, and I tried to talk to him the way I did that day. But he got more and more quiet. I opened the door and he was gone,” Neal explained, his voice growing smaller as he spoke.

“I’m here, though,” his Papa said gently. “I came out of the room, and I’m right here.”

“I know,” Neal said. He looked up at his Papa again. “Is being put in con- con-”

“Confinement,” Belle supplied softly from the other side of him.

“Is that like when Mum closed me in the washroom?” he asked. “I was lonely, and scared, and it’s not fun…”

His Papa’s face looked so sad all of a sudden, and Neal wished that he hadn’t talked about it again. His Papa turned toward him, though, moving the arm from around him and holding a hand to his cheek.

“You didn’t deserve to be closed up in any washroom,” his Papa told him. “Not for _any_ reason. Do you understand that, duckling?”

Neal felt as if he couldn’t get a breath in deep enough again. “I didn’t do anything bad,” he said, and the breath he tried to draw in hiccupped back out.

“No, you didn’t,” his Papa agreed, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. “You didn’t do anything bad.”

“You didn’t deserve being locked in the washroom, and your father didn’t deserve to be put in confinement,” Belle said. She sounded upset, but Neal felt her hand pet his hair and he understood that she wasn’t upset toward him. “Nurse Mills was very wrong in what she did to your Papa, and your Mum was very wrong in what she did to you.”

No one was hurting him, and he felt safe in the office with his Papa and Belle and Dr. Hopper. He didn’t feel alone or frightened. So he didn’t understand why he began to cry.

He tried to hide the tears that gathered, looking down and blinking quickly, because that sometimes made them go away when there weren’t too many.

“Why did they do it, then?” he asked, hoping that they couldn’t tell.

“Some people, like Nurse Mills, harm others because they’re unhappy, themselves,” Dr. Hopper said. “There are other reasons, I’m certain, but I believe that’s the foundation of the way she treats people.”

His Papa went on when the doctor didn’t. “I don’t know why your Mum did the things she did. No matter why she did them, she was wrong. You never did anything to _make_ her hurt you. All right?”

It didn’t feel that way sometimes, but Neal nodded. If his Papa said it, he was sure it was true. He just needed to remember.

They were quiet for a little while, he noticed. He took the chance to try and make himself stop crying, thinking about his room and school, and how it felt to get to get to see his Papa an extra day this week. Neal turned his face to wipe his cheek on his shoulder.

“Is there anything that _you_ would like to talk about, Neal?” Dr. Hopper asked.

Neal knew what he wanted to talk about. He didn’t have to think about it for too long. It took him a minute or two to make himself ask, though, because he didn’t think anybody else wanted to talk about it.

He frowned, squirming so that he sat on his hands, and said quietly, “Nobody will tell me why Papa is sick.”

Belle and Rummond looked at one another over the top of Neal’s head. Neither of them had told the little boy much about his father’s illness. It was an attempt to protect him from it, Belle supposed, assuming that he wouldn’t understand. Dr. Hopper looked to them, effectively turning the question over to them.

Rummond swallowed hard, sorting his thoughts. How did one even begin to tell a child his son’s age the kind of things that had sent him into the hospital?

“Neal… do you remember before? Before your Mum and her friend took you, when I had to go away sometimes? I’d go away and come home over and over. Do you remember?”

Neal squinted. He thought he remembered. “I remember you being home and then not being home.”

“Some things happened when I was away that very last time,” Rummond began to explain. “Some of those things, and some people, they did things that hurt me.”

“Like a gun? Or a knife?” Neal looked thoughtfully up at his Papa.

Rummond nodded, running a hand over the back of the boy’s hair. “In part. But there are injuries and illnesses that aren’t inflicted with a weapon.”

“What did they do?” Neal asked.

Rummond hesitated. He glanced to Belle and to Dr. Hopper, but both seemed to be watching with calm interest. How was he meant to explain _that?_

“Some things, they cause harm in a place that you can’t see. It’s a bit like being hurt in your thoughts.” He looked to Dr. Hopper again, and the doctor simply gave him a bit of a nod. “Sometimes my mind does things that it shouldn’t, or that hurt me, because of what happened when I was away from home.”

“That’s what was wrong when you couldn’t talk?” Neal asked.

“When I couldn’t…” Rummond thought, sorting out what his son meant. “Do you mean when I couldn’t get out of bed? The Sunday you snuck off to come to the hospital?”

Neal shifted his eyes away from his Papa, nodding sheepishly at the reminder. 

“No, I- that was something a bit different.”

“What was it?”

That wasn’t something that Rummond had expected to explain, either. His stomach turned a bit. A wave of humiliation went through him at the prospect of telling his son how his own father had behaved toward him.

It occurred to Rummond all at once that he would never accept Neal feeling such a way about how his mother had treated him. The insight of that gave him the bolstering that he needed.

“You know how Dr. Hopper talks to you about your mum, about the things she did that hurt you? That made you sad?” he asked, and his son nodded. “Well… my father treated me a bit like your mum treated you. He hurt me, and he was unkind. I couldn’t forget it, the same as you couldn’t forget how your mum hurt you. It lasted much longer, and I didn’t have anyone to talk to about it then. Not in the way we talk to Dr. Hopper now. So it kept hurting, and it… made me ill. That’s what had happened on the day you came around and I couldn’t talk to you.”

Neal listened, and he considered what his Papa told him. He chewed on the inside of his cheek as a new worry formed. “Will I get ill because of the way Mum hurt me?”

“I hope not, duckling,” Rummond said softly, touching Neal’s cheek with a curled finger. “That’s why you talk to Dr. Hopper - so that you might keep from it.”

“But you got ill because of the way your papa hurt you?”

“I did. Because there was no one to help me when I was a wee thing like you.”

“I don’t want to get ill,” Neal said, his voice small. He ducked his head to hide how his lower lip wobbled, and he couldn’t at all help the tears that spilled over this time.

Rummond brought his son gently over into his lap, holding him. “I don’t want you to get ill, either,” he said, “but even if you did, I would love you. You understand that, don’t you?”

Neal buried his face in the front of his Papa’s robe and curled in close. A stuttering sniffle broke free, and his Papa wrapped him up in a tight hug, kissing the top of his head again.

“I love you more than anything in all the world,” Rummond reassured his son. “Nothing will ever change that. Nothing that you could do, nor anyone else. I love you, and Belle loves you.”

Belle reached to rub Neal’s back. Shifting closer, she leaned her shoulder into Rummond’s. “Of course I love you,” she said, smiling at Neal as he turned his head enough see her, his eyes cracked open the slightest bit. She stroked a tear from his cheek as it ran down, more out of gesture than any attempt to stem them. “I couldn’t help loving you, darling.”

Dr. Hopper sat back and turned his attention to the thin file he had open on his lap, leaving them some bit of privacy as they comforted Neal. He believed the boy would be all right, eventually, and his father was coming along, as well. Both of his patients seemed to gain a great deal out of Neal’s appointments. Nurse French’s presence, though he’d had a concern or two that it might make things more difficult, seemed to have had precisely the opposite effect. She had become an integral part of the little boy’s healing, in particular. There was far more happening before him than the romance that had begun between Nurse French and Captain Gold. He felt as though he’d gradually witnessed a family finding itself.


	114. Found Out

“Where are we?” she asked, taking Rummond’s book from the corner of his table and flipping it open to the slip of paper marking it just a bit over halfway.

He cut a piece of sausage into four purposeful sections, spearing one and giving it a look before answering. “Mrs. Ambrose thinks she’s found a white hair. I believe that’s where I left off.”

Belle was glad to see that he’d gotten a good dozen pages or so beyond the place she last remembered him reading from. She sat on his bedside, keeping him company over breakfast. They’d talked about how Neal was faring with his arithmetic (increasingly better) and spelling (full marks on the most recent test) before she suggested reading a few pages from his book. Rummond rarely turned down being read to, and this morning was no exception.

His appetite had returned for the most part. She pretended not to watch as he nearly cleaned his plate, leaving behind only a bit of bread that had gotten soggy and a few bites of egg. It was a little out of the ordinary for him, but he wasn’t the last finished, either. She gave him a bright smile and a pat on the knee in reward.

She sat farther away from Rummond than had become usual for the two of them, and she loathed it. They were better safe than sorry, though, she supposed, as Nurse Mills was having her first day back and seemed to be looking for reasons to reassert her power over the hospital.

Belle meant to pause for only a moment between chapters to have a glance around the ward. Most everything appeared to be in order - the exception being Nurse Mills having waylaid Ruby near the back of the room, raking her over the coals about something. Ruby looked one part upset and two parts mutinous over whatever it was that the head nurse went on about.

“The suspension doesn’t appear to have done anything for her personality.” Rummond murmured the observation, his eyebrows raised in the same direction Belle’s attention had gone.

She looked to him again and opened her mouth to provide some remark comparing the head nurse’s personality to that of a jackal, but something just past him on the other aisle of the ward caught her eye. She’d been so distracting by the ridiculous scolding that Nurse Mills was giving her friend that she hadn’t noticed someone come onto the ward.

The woman had a dusky complexion and a great deal of dark, wavy hair arranged into a stylish updo. Her rose-colored dress was cut modestly, cleanly, radiating elegance and dignity. A little boy - younger than Neal by at least a couple of years - with the same dark hair and eyes, the very spit and image of his mother, held onto her hand and stayed near her skirts.

Belle, having never seen her before, wondered whether she was there for a patient. The woman cast around for a moment before finding what she searched for, at which point something akin to anger crossed her face. She schooled it away, her chin tilting back as she regained her poise.

Rummond noticed how Belle’s attention had been caught again, and he turned to follow her line of sight as a visitor with a child along walked a bit farther down the aisle behind him. The woman stopped, waiting while Nurse Mills dismissed Nurse Lucas and headed back toward the front.

“Ms. Regina Mills,” the woman said.

Nurse Mills stopped, giving her an appraising look. “I am. And you would be?”

“My name is Marian Coughlan,” she introduced herself politely. “And this is my son, Roland.”

The head nurse’s eyes widened for a split second, and though she did her best to recover her cool demeanor, she was suddenly white as one of the bleached hospital sheets. 

“Oh, dear Lord,” Belle breathed. She heard Lieutenant Hargreaves chuckle from over on his own bed, and her eyes shifted to meet Rummond’s as his head whipped around to look at her with a similarly shocked expression before both returned their attention to the pair.

“I believe you know my husband,” Mrs. Coughlan went on. She held her son’s small hand in hers, drawing it closer to clasp it gently to one side of the heavy swell of her belly.

“Yes,” Nurse Mills said at last, sounding as though it had taken a bit of work to get the word out of her mouth. “I know him.”

“Quite well, do you not?”

“We should go to my office,” Nurse Mills said, obviously attempting to move them off the ward.

Mrs. Coughlan easily brushed aside the suggestion, though. “No. I won’t be here that long.”

“What are you here for, then?”

“Here is what is going to happen, Nurse Mills,” Mrs. Coughlan said. “My family is leaving Mansfield. I expect nothing more of you than to never cross my path again. I simply wished to meet you and to tell you that your acquaintance with my husband is at an end.”

Nurse Mills bristled visibly. “Is that so?”

Mrs. Coughlan, extraordinarily calm under the circumstances, raised an eyebrow. “It is indeed.”

“Perhaps you should let your husband decide who he will and will not have an acquaintance with,” the head nurse replied, working to bring the venom back to her voice.

“He doesn’t know about my visit. He doesn’t need to. And he _won’t,”_ Mrs. Coughlan told her. “Is that clear?”

Nurse Mills grinned, though it was forced and lacked the usual predatory glint. “If you wanted to keep your husband in the dark, perhaps you went about your little confrontation the wrong way.”

“If anything I tell you is muddled in the least, please allow me to clarify. Neither you nor I would want my cousin to make your life difficult. Which he could. Easily. I believe you know of George? His family has quite the fine home in the middle of London,” Mrs. Coughlan said, a smile on her face that dared the head nurse to challenge her.

Belle could see the precise instant that Mrs. Coughlan’s meaning regarding her cousin struck Nurse Mills. The head nurse looked as if she might be sick. 

“I understand,” Nurse Mills said. She clasped her hands in front of her as she did when she handed orders down to a room full of nurses, attempting to recover some scrap of dignity. “Your meaning is quite clear.”

Mrs. Coughlan took a step back, almost turning, but she looked to the head nurse again. “You are nothing more than a temporary intrigue who tried and failed to destroy my family. You should know that,” she said. She gave Nurse Mills a final look before walking away without a farewell, leaving the ward with her son.

Nurse Mills was peaked and flushed with embarrassment by the time Mrs. Coughlan had gone, and the ward was absolutely silent. She deliberately ignored the eyes on her, looking as though she wished that she could simply disappear.

She caught Belle looking right at her, and her eyes narrowed. “Nurse French,” the head nurse said, stepping between Jezek’s and Knight’s beds. “I believe it’s time for inventory to be taken of the hospital’s supply closets. All of them.”

Belle couldn’t be _terribly_ angry about being sent off for the despised task - not after Mrs. Coughlan’s gloriously controlled display knocking Nurse Mills down a few dozen pegs.

She stood, marking the page in Rummond’s book again and setting it on his table. “I’ll be back in when I can,” she said quietly.

Belle followed the head nurse off the ward and waited while she was let into the storage closet to begin inventory, beginning with their own. She made certain she wasn’t locked in before taking the clipboard down from the wall next to the door. With a disgusted sigh, she went into the center shelves and pulled a box of syringes down, beginning her count.

Not two hours later, she left the supply closet with an intended destination of the nurse’s washroom. She had the majority of the small supplies counted and logged, and she knew that she could have the rest done in the next half hour so that she could move on to the north closet. She was nearly to the foyer when Dr. Coughlan passed her going the opposite way.

Belle looked back toward the washroom and then to the doctor, who headed quickly toward Nurse Mills’ office. He stepped inside without so much as a knock and shut the door behind him.

She needed that visit to the washroom a bit urgently, but if she went on, she would miss what might be said. And she wanted to hear, particularly after _Mrs._ Coughlan’s visit. The washroom could wait a few minutes, she decided. Following that scene on the ward, there was no chance that she could resist a bit of eavesdropping. Silently, Belle crossed the corridor and placed herself next to the head nurse’s office.

“You failed to mention that your wife is _cousin to the bloody King,”_ Nurse Mills seethed.

Dr. Coughlan sounded more defensive. “Do you think I imagined it would be relevant to- to-”

They’d apparently dispensed with ‘hello’s, then. She could hear a man’s footsteps pacing back and forth, his voice following them across the office. 

“Did you _send_ her to give me some vaguely cautionary message?” the head nurse began to accuse.

Belle didn’t think there was anything so _vague_ about what Mrs. Coughlan had said. The doctor’s wife had been rather clear.

“Of course I didn’t! I wouldn’t ask her to travel, even if I’d gall to do such a thing in the first place. Do you think I _told_ her about us?”

She heard a soft thump against the door, and for a moment she feared someone might be coming out. Then there came an odd brushing sound, and she realized that someone was being pressed up against it.

“Robin…” Nurse Mills cooed. “You haven’t forgotten so quickly how well we work together. You can talk sense to your wife. Better yet, you could go ahead and install yourself nearby. Wouldn’t that be the better choice?”

There was more movement against the door, after which Dr. Coughlan’s voice sounded a bit farther away. “This is the end of it, Regina. You knew as well as I did that this was never meant to be a thing of permanence.”

“You never said any such thing,” Nurse Mills replied indignantly. 

“I most certainly did. I told you straight out from the beginning that a divorce wasn’t possible.”

“And yet that leaves open a myriad of possibilities. You and I both know well enough that a wife can be disposed of in any number of ways.”

“No,” Dr. Coughlan said, sounding a bit taken aback.

The head nurse went on with her attempts to cajole him into staying. “You could bring the boy along. I’ve told you how I love children. I would be a wonderful-”

 _“No,”_ he repeated staunchly. “I won’t set my wife aside - not in _any_ way - and I would never take my son from his mother. You can put that out of your mind right now.”

Nurse Mills laughed. “You allow your wife to govern your emotions that freely, do you?” she ridiculed, taking a different tact. “It’s no wonder she thought that she could come along and hand down threats.”

“We’re finished, Regina. It was unwise to begin with, what I got into here with you,” he told her, sounding suddenly as though he would rather be anywhere other than the head nurse’s office or this hospital. “I don’t know how this happened.”

“Well, you certainly didn’t take your trousers down time after time by accident,” she snapped.

“I love my wife. I love my children. I’m not leaving them. That’s the end of it, Regina. _This_ is the end of it.”

“I do not accept that!”

“You don’t have to. I’m removing myself from the equation.”

There was a moment of quiet before Nurse Mills said, “Just what do you mean by that?”

“There’s a charity hospital in the far north in need of an administrator.”

“The far north?” she repeated, then asked, “Where?”

“I won’t tell you that. There’s no use in it.”

“Robin!” Nurse Mills bit off. “You’ll tell me or I’ll find out for myself and-”

“And what, Regina? You’ll follow? Then what will you do? No. No, I won’t have you near my wife and children.”

Belle couldn’t blame him in the least - particularly not after hearing the head nurse’s remark about disposing of wives and the attempt to have him bring his son to her.

“You bastard!” Nurse Mills hissed. “You were using me!”

“Is it not a bit ironic for you to accuse another person of using?”

There was another moment of quiet, and Belle squirmed a little as the discomfort of her need for the washroom worsened.

“Robin… I’m certain we can repair this. I’ll never go near your family,” Nurse Mills said, attempting to coax him once more. “If I give you my word-”

“I _am_ sorry. I wish I’d never…” He stopped short and didn’t continue the thought.

“Never what?” Nurse Mills asked, and Belle heard her footsteps thump angrily across the office floor. “You wish you’d never _what?_

“This is never going to go the way you want it to. I won’t be convinced to leave my family, and you won’t be convinced of why I refuse to,” Dr. Coughlan said as he at last realized it. “But I’ve made my decision.”

“Don’t you _dare_ walk away from me! Robin!” the head nurse yelled, furious.

“Goodbye, Nurse Mills.”

Belle scrambled across the corridor and into the supply closet before the door handle could rattle. She didn’t breathe until she heard the head nurse’s door open and slam shut again twice - Dr. Coughlan leaving and Nurse Mills following after him, she imagined.

“Oh, hell,” she muttered to herself, cursing the fact that the nurse’s washroom was off the far side of the foyer. She’d have to wait now, until she was certain that the way was clear or until it had been long enough that she wouldn’t be suspected of listening in.

She felt a bit conflicted about what she’d heard. The affair was repulsive for a fair number of reasons, and she was relieved that it was over for the sake of Dr. Coughlan’s children and wife, who seemed intent on keeping him despite his straying. However, when the doctor was lurking about the hospital, Nurse Mills tended to be a bit distracted and far less likely to cause anyone harm. 

Belle supposed the ending of such a relationship couldn’t have been made palatable, really. It was bound to be a nasty discussion no matter how it was presented. Unfortunately, the head nurse’s already sour mood was unlikely to be improved by that. 

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

“I suppose you find it funny, do you, such strife?”

Rummond looked up from the watch that he was fitting the back onto, finding Nurse Mills standing near his footlocker. His jaw clenched and released. No good would come of this.

“Quite the contrary,” he said, looking her in the eye despite the itch it sent down his backbone. “I’ve not laughed a bit. I don’t tend toward taking pleasure in others’ misfortune.”

“Oh, I’m certain you’ve made exceptions.” She stepped around the end of his bunk, the coolly accusing look that she usually gave him holding more anger in it this morning. “Did you enjoy it, witnessing it inflicted on yet another woman what you’ve exacted on so many yourself?”

Rummond shook his head, only avoiding a laugh of disbelief _now_ because he knew that she would take it as contempt rather than confusion. “Just in case it hasn’t sunk in yet, I don’t have the first clue what you’re on about.”

“Do you not see your new plaything suffering because of your attentions?” She leaned close, her teeth slightly bared between full and snarling lips. “And if she doesn’t now, _she will,”_ the head nurse said in a no-mistake tone of threat.

“‘Plaything’?” he sputtered. “You don’t know your nurse well at all, if you believe she would ever be someone’s ‘plaything.’”

“There are all manner manipulations perpetrated by men the likes of yourself,” she said, snorting with derision. “The right words, the right promises, and you turn a girl against her own intentions.”

“I haven’t manipulated Nurse French,” Rummond told the head nurse, frowning up at her. The thought of anyone claiming he had, even if it was this awful woman, made him uncomfortable. “She is nothing if not her own person.”

“How many women will you destroy before you remove yourself and the misery you deal?” Nurse Mills reached past him, resting a hand on the headboard of his bunk. “It would be remarkably easy to make certain that a gun found its way onto the ward, should you decide you have need of one for… _personal reasons.”_

Rummond’s stomach and mouth flooded with bitterness at her suggestion.

“Nurse Mills!” Nurse Nolan called from behind her. The head nurse’s second-in-command gave a narrow look of her own. “If you’re not terribly busy, I have a handful of requisition forms that need a looking over and your signature.”

The head nurse straightened her posture, though she kept a caustic glare trained on him until she turned on her heel.

Nurse Nolan’s eyes lingered on him for a second, and she gave him a polite thinning of her lips that didn’t quite make it to a smile before she followed Nurse Mills off the ward.

 _Well, then,_ Rummond thought. The foundations of the head nurse’s shaky dictatorship appeared to crumble further and further. He only worried who might be caught beneath when it came crashing down.


	115. Bloom in Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Prompts - anonymousnerdgirl said: BtFtB prompt: Maurice remarks on Malcolm's passing (maybe while reading an obituary) and the inheritance, something to the effect that he's happy to know Belle will be provided for._
> 
> _anonymous said: Could we see Rum sew or mend something for Belle?_

Belle tucked her coat and the garment bag that now held her nurse’s uniform behind the front desk, and she stopped to have a peek out onto the drive before heading back to the ward. Horatio would be there to fetch her soon. She wanted to go in to check on Rummond before she left, anyway, but she had a particular desire to see his face when he saw her dress.

Her father had a business dinner scheduled, and he wanted her there. While she didn’t usually mind attending, he’d insisted that she be home to accept guests with him as they arrived on this particular evening, which meant she needed to leave work a few hours early. That also meant it had been necessary for her to take her things along so that she could change out of her uniform.

She’d let Rummond know about the dinner and having to leave early. He had tried to hide the disappointment that crossed his face, but she couldn’t blame him for it. She was disappointed about having to go, herself. It was only after extracting a promise from him that he would eat every bite of his own dinner that he possibly could that she’d excused herself to get ready.

He was watching for her when she stepped back onto the ward again, and his response was as satisfying as she’d hoped. His gaze ran a slow path down her body, lingering on her legs below the mid-calf hemline. She had a bit of a smirk on her lips when his eyes darted guiltily back up. 

The ivory silk of her dress was beaded heavily with golden flowers and vines, and a long, soft streamer that extended from the dress’ drape across her back tied at her right hip. The beads wouldn’t glint as prettily under the electric lights at home as they did in the sun coming through the ward windows, but it wasn’t her father’s guests whose interest she cared about. 

Belle looked over her shoulder down the corridor before she let the ward door close behind her. It was late afternoon, and just after tea, Nurse Mills had demanded the inventory sheets that Belle had been forced to fill out for each of the hospital’s supply closets the day before. She’d handed them over cheerfully, knowing what they contained. In a bit of petty retaliation, she’d made her inventory as absolutely thorough and detailed as possible, knowing that as vindictive as the head nurse had been of late, Nurse Mills would go over them in an effort to catch her in a mistake. Belle had listed and counted everything right down to the number of needles on their cards and the boxes that supplies were placed upon the shelves in. The head nurse, owing to her own attempt to punish Belle, would be working her way through the closets for the better part of the day. 

Rummond knew how he stared. He didn’t know that he could have torn his eyes away if he’d wanted to. She’d put her hair up in a roll along the nape of her neck to imitate a bob; there was a tortoiseshell bandeau comb positioned above it to anchor it into place, and he was sure a dozen or so bobby pins besides. His eyes followed the pretty curve of her neck and shoulders as she walked over. Her usual snug work chignon was far more baring, so he wasn’t certain why the soft way she had her hair caught up drew his eyes to her neck. Perhaps the novelty of it. Whatever it was, he wished that he had all evening to look at her instead of the few minutes it would take for her to say goodnight.

She was just near enough to reach out for the footboard of his bunk as her foot turned over, catching herself.

“Belle?” he asked as he leaned forward to reach for her, just as she muttered, “Oh, for Heaven’s sake.”

She looked down at her shoe. It was a wonder she hadn’t snapped the heel, and wouldn’t that have been just about right. The strap flopped, though, and she realized the threads holding the button had come loose. Looking around, she found the little pearl button laying over in front of Rummond’s bedside table. Thank goodness it hadn’t skittered off across the room.

“Here,” he said as she bent to pick up her button. “I can fix it, if you like?”

Belle smiled up at him and sat on the edge of his bed, holding the button out to him. “If you don’t mind it.”

He fished out the sewing kit from his drawer and patted his knee, asking her to prop her foot there. “You haven’t hurt yourself, have you?”

She flexed her ankle. It twinged a little, but nothing that would keep her from walking. “Only my pride.”

Rummond threaded a needle before he slipped her shoe off. He began sewing the button carefully back on, using the leather thimble from his kit to help with pushing the needle through the layers of fabric and stiff stabilizer. His eyes strayed to her foot between stitches. He could practically feel the softness of her white stocking beneath his fingers.

“Did they not have it in blue?” he teased as he worked, looking up at her dress with a nod.

She grinned. She might’ve had a disproportionate number of blue pieces of clothing, but she hadn’t imagined he would notice the way he had. “Not _everything_ I own is blue.”

He bounced his knee beneath her foot a bit, returning her smile. “Your dress is beautiful, love,” he told her quietly. “You make it so.”

His compliment sent warmth washing along her skin, and her toes gave a pleased wiggle. “Thank you.”

She watched as he fixed the button so that the thread didn’t show on the inside of her shoe. “Ruby’s engagement party is tomorrow evening,” she said after a moment.

Rummond gave her a sidelong look, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And what sort of dress might it be you’re wearing?”

“It’s a bit longer and more fitted than this. There are white beads around the bodice and up the straps that fade away down the skirt.”

He noticed how she neglected to mention its color. That could only mean one thing. “So, blue then?”

Belle turned her face toward him and closed her eyes, scrunching her features into an expression between amusement and exasperation. “Yes, it does happen to be blue.”

He snickered softly and she laughed with him. “Well, if ever I happen to see a dress I think you might like, I know which color to order it in,” he said, going back to his repairs.

“I wish you were coming along.” She fiddled with the way her streamer lay on the blanket. The majority of Ruby’s guests were couples, friends and family all. “It would be nice to have you with me.”

Rummond looked up at her, pricking his thumb where he’d meant to catch the needle to pull it back through. A tiny bead of blood welled up and he grimaced, pressing the spot together with his index finger. “With you? At a party so…”

“I’m not ashamed of you.”

“I only meant-” He shrugged, directing far too much attention to checking whether his thumb had stopped bleeding. 

Belle blinked, reaching to lay a hand on his arm. “Rummond. I am not ashamed of you.”

“There aren’t many people who know. That’s all I meant.”

“Other than every nurse in the hospital and most of the patients on our ward?” She smiled, shaking her head. “Mrs. Potts knows. There _are_ people who know.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it, Belle,” he said, shrugging a shoulder. “We’re quiet by necessity. I know that.”

“I am proud to love you. Even prouder that you love me,” she told him, tightening her fingers around his arm. “And as soon as you’re out of the hospital, I’m going to tell everyone I cross paths with. I’ll suffer every event I land an invitation to just to show you off.”

That brought a smile at the corner of his mouth again, and she longed to give in to the urge to plant a kiss precisely there.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said under his breath, but she spied the sparkle in his eyes.

Rummond finished fixing her shoe, and he fit it onto her foot again, closing the strap over its secured button. He let his fingertips stroke along the back of her ankle.

“Good as new,” he said.

She moved her foot from his lap, standing to test her shoe as well as her ankle. “Better than.”

“Don’t get too cold?” He noted her lack of sleeves with concern. Lovely as her arms were, he didn’t understand the fashion that meant baring them even in the middle of winter

“I’ll be just fine,” Belle assured him with a smile. She sat on his bedside again. “When I say ‘business dinner,’ I do mean business. The most excitement there’ll be is when cigars come out at the end of the night.” She wrinkled her nose and sighed. “The maids will have to air the parlor for days and I’ll have to wash my hair twice to get the smoke out. But I won’t be expected to flit around, and I plan to stay near the fireplace.”

“Are there no books to rescue you from the boredom of it?” he asked, knowing her too well.

“Apparently when one becomes an adult, it’s no longer seemly to hide in a corner with a book. One must be sociable. Or so I’ve heard many times over.”

“Absurd. I hope it’s tolerable, at least.”

“As do I,” Belle agreed as she stood. “Neal and I will see you on Monday morning,” she reminded him, turning to place herself between Rummond and the doors. She held out her hand, lacing her fingers between his when he took it. “Goodnight, sweetheart. Imagine me saying it when you’re going to sleep and it isn’t broad daylight?”

He smiled, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “Have a nice evening, love,” he wished her quietly.

“I’ll do my best,” she said, wrinkling her nose again.

Belle slipped her hand from his and gave him one last smile before turning to go. He watched her leave, feeling a wave of longing to go with her.

As a blessing and a curse, the ward was peaceful for hours. It meant no turmoil, but there was nothing to distract him from missing the way Belle would likely have been able to sit with him during such a quiet evening.

The kitchen trolley came around with dinner trays and he was glad of something to do, even if it was nothing more than grumping his way through his evening meal.

Rummond heard a grumble from across the aisle and looked up to find Commander Strand setting his tray aside. The Commander turned to put his leg over the edge of the bed, working to get up. It was a slow process, and his face pulled in pain, but he was obviously doing his best to hurry. He reached for his crutches and, knocking one over, had to half lie down to balance his reach for it. As he retrieved the crutch and positioned it so that he could lever himself up, his face fell. Strand’s shoulders slumped and he dropped his crutches back to the floor in frustration, burying his face in his hands. After a few moments, he looked around.

“Nurse Nolan?” he called toward the back of the room, his face beet red.

Nurse Nolan, who had taken the end of Belle’s shift, hurried up the aisle. “Commander? What’s the matter?”

He gestured so that she would lean down, and he whispered some explanation to her without looking up at her face. 

“Oh. Oh, dear. All right.” Nurse Nolan touched his shoulder. “Give me a few moments and we’ll have it all sorted out. All right, Commander?”

Strand nodded. He pulled his covers back across his lap as she hurried away again.

Nurse Nolan trotted to the front of the ward, catching Nurse Boyd before she could clock out. “Go down to the kitchen and fetch vinegar and cornstarch. And if you see an orderly, send them back with it. Otherwise, I’ll need your help before you leave.”

She was on her way out right after Nurse Boyd when the head nurse swung the door open in front of her. Nurse Mills stopped a bit short, looking at her. “Where are you going?”

“I’m on my way to fetch clean bedclothes,” Nurse Nolan said. “We’ve had a small accident.”

The head nurse made no move to step out of her way, though. She looked over the righthand side of the ward, a lip curled in distaste. Her sour mood had evidently gotten no better. “Which was it?”

“Commander Strand. His kidney infection got the better of him a few minutes ago, I’m afraid. The parsley tea is working, but he’s still having a bit of trouble and couldn’t get out of bed quickly enough,” Nurse Nolan relayed, making an attempt to step past the head nurse.

Nurse Mills wrapped a hand around Nurse Nolan’s upper arm, pulling her back. “Leave him.”

“Pardon?” Nurse Nolan said, as though she couldn’t believe what she’d been instructed to do.

“Leave him,” the head nurse pronounced more slowly. “He’ll learn to get himself to the washroom in time, as a grown man should.”

Rummond’s eyebrows shot up. He was rather certain that Strand was some manner of middling nobility, judging by the visitors and care packages he received. The head nurse hadn’t so much as wanted to censure Colonel Fitzroy, yet suddenly she was willing to leave Strand in wet sheets?

Nurse Nolan stared at the head nurse in wide-eyed horror for a few seconds before sputtering, “...No!”

“Excuse me?” Nurse Mills said, taken aback.

“No,” Nurse Nolan told her more certainly. “It’s cruel, and I’m not doing it.”

“You will do what I _tell you_ to do, Mary Margaret,” the head nurse hissed in her face.

“I’ve made excuses for you,” Nurse Nolan said, visibly upset, her voice rising, though she held onto as much sternness as she could. “I have been understanding. I’ve- I’ve covered things up! I’ve seen and heard things from you _no one_ with a conscience would do. Only _yesterday_ I heard you threaten a patient with providing the means for suicide! And…” She shook her head, reeling back a step as she realized. “I’m done. I won’t do it any longer.”

Rather than reply with venom or threats, Nurse Mills responded with a simple and cold, “You’re fired. Collect your belongings and leave.”

Nurse Nolan looked at her for a moment before reaching up to pull the cap from her hair, pins and all, and tossed it at the head nurse’s chest.

Nurse Mills eyed her with satisfaction, allowing the cap to fall to the floor as Nurse Nolan steered around her.

“And unless you feel you can physically stop me, I’m changing his damned bed first!”

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

Belle poked angrily in the sitting room fireplace at the end of the night, while her father saw the last of his dinner guests from the parlor to the front door. She continued to turn it over in her thoughts, how her father had kept pushing her at Donat’s mother. It had been an unpleasant surprise when the woman walked in, to say the least, and Belle had felt sick with apprehension for the moments it took to be certain that her son wasn’t accompanying her. 

Her father had attempted to get the two of them engaged in discussion before dinner, seated them next to one another at the table, and left them together in the parlor after dinner was done. He was harboring some hope that all would end up going somewhat according to plan between herself and her very much _former_ fiancé. For Donat’s mother’s part, she’d been aloof but polite, and Belle was glad of that much.

“Keep on and you’ll scorch your dress,” Mrs. Potts said, tutting at her. “What would you say to a cup of tea and a few biscuits? You didn’t eat much tonight.”

“I don’t believe I’m up to having much in my stomach just now. I’m sorry.” Belle frowned and watched the flames dance, listening to the crackle of the wood. 

“All right, then. Those marmalade biscuits will be on the counter under a napkin, if you decide you’re peckish later.” Mrs. Potts hovered for a moment before leaving her be again.

Belle clanked the iron poker back into its rack and pulled the screen back into place, making a decision. It was time.

She headed for her father’s study, gathering her determination and courage about her before knocking twice at the door. As soon as he spoke, she stepped inside.

“Papa, I have something that I need to tell you,” she said before anything could change her mind. She sat in the chair on the other side of the desk from him, hands clasped together in her lap.

He leaned over his blotter, sorting through the day’s post. “Wasn’t it lovely, how gracious and kind Mrs. Gaston was this evening? After everything.”

Neither ‘gracious’ nor ‘kind’ were words she would have ever used to describe that woman, but Belle managed not to say so aloud. “Papa-”

“She’s quite agreeable on a summer wedding, if that’s what you would prefer now.”

“I don’t want a summer wedding.”

“Oh? I suppose autumn would be-”

“Papa, listen to me!” she said loudly enough to make it past his dithering about wedding plans. “I’m involved with Captain Gold.”

Maurice looked up from the blotter, regarding her as though she’d spoken some language beyond him. “That man who was here over Christmas?” he sputtered, his face beginning to turn a bit red. _“That_ man is the one you’ve taken up with? That you’ve thrown Donat over for?”

“That man has a name, father,” Belle replied evenly. “I did not throw Donat over for him. Donat’s exit from this house and my life had been due for a long while.

Maurice frowned. His daughter didn’t call him ‘father’ often, and he knew that it meant nothing good. She was angry. “Belle, my dear girl… That m- Captain Gold is twice your age. Twice, at least.”

“You were thirty-six and Mama was seventeen when you married,” Belle reminded him, challenging his criticism. She’d been going over arguments with her father in her head for months, and she hoped that she had rebuttals for every eventuality.

“That- that is _different.”_

“How so?”

Her father’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for water. 

“Rummond has never treated me with anything less than kindness. He is kind and respectful, he’s brave, he treats me the way I want to be treated, he-”

“Is this because you’re taking care of his boy?” Maurice asked, apparently searching for an explanation. “He’s put a pin on you to be that boy’s mother, hasn’t he?”

“Neal has nothing to do with it. No - I suppose that isn’t true.” Belle stood, getting up to pace the room so that she didn’t feel so enclosed between the chair and her father’s desk. “I do love Neal. Very much. I would dearly love to have a permanent place in his life. But I loved Rummond before I ever met his son.”

He shook his head stubbornly. “Belle, I don’t believe you understand what it will be like, being attached to man of such low standing.”

“I don’t care about _standing._ You know better.”

“Donat Gaston is nearer your age, my dear, and he comprehends the societal obligations of-”

“I am not going to marry Donat! I’m not!” She scowled across the room at her father, at last running out of patience with his obstinate refusal to believe her or to so much as listen to her. “We have discussed this more times than my stomach can take. Do you not understand? I can’t abide the idea of being his wife. It would be absolute misery for me, Papa!”

Maurice frowned, looking at his daughter as though it was the first time the idea had registered in his mind. “You would be that unhappy?”

“I don’t even like being in the same _room_ with Donat,” she admitted. “He isn’t the man you think he is.”

“Oh, now, Belle-”

“No. You saw the face that he wanted you to see. He sat down in a room with you and he was all charm, talking polo and hunting, bantering about politics.” Her mouth had decided to tell her father the truth, and as her mind caught up, her heart began to pound in fear of what he might think of it. “When Donat and I were _alone,_ he was a very different person. He was rough, father. And crude. _Vile._ I still have nightmares of his hands on me, and I will not suffer him for the rest of my life!”

Her father had a face like thunder. He went through a series of transitions before settling on stricken and gaping at her. After a moment - far longer than it took Belle to feel the instinct to flee the room and hide behind Mrs. Potts - he hefted himself from his chair and crossed the room to her.

“Belle…” he began gently, reaching for her hand, and his face fell further when she took a step back. “I won’t mention him again. I’ll cancel every single plan on hold as soon as the shops open. It was never my intention to hurt you.”

She took a breath, not terribly surprised to find it a shaky one. “He-” she began, and she had to wait until the tightness in her throat went away to go on. “He wasn’t the point of this conversation.”

“I only don’t want you to make a choice that you might regret,” her father said.

She nodded, the terrible, foreboding feeling that churned her insides beginning to settle down. “And I understand that. However, it’s my choice to make. I choose Rummond. _He_ is my choice.”

“You’re happy with him?” Maurice asked carefully. “After this stint in the hospital? His reputation? You would be happy to be his wife?”

A smile bloomed slowly across Belle’s face as she imagined it. “I’d be over the moon, Papa.”

Her father sighed, his face drawing in thought. “Is he some relation to Malcolm Gold?”

“Rummond is _nothing_ like his father,” she said, defensive and protective all at once.

“No, no, I only meant- I recall the obituary. A fortnight or so back. Perhaps a bit more? In the _London Daily._ He died quite suddenly. Malcolm Gold is your Captain Gold’s father?”

She felt a bright little scintillation of pride spark through the middle of her at Rummond being called _hers._ “He was. A very long time ago.”

“Well.” Maurice tugged at his jacket. “You’ll be provided for, won’t you. I’m happy to know it.”

Belle looked at him. “Is that all you’re happy for, Papa?”

“Does he love you?” her father asked after a moment.

“He does.” she smiled, taking a step toward him again. “Very much. And I love him. Also very much.”

“Well, then. I suppose…” Maurice nodded, looking as if he’d decided upon something, himself. “I suppose that’s the important bit, isn’t it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visual aid:  
> [Belle's outfit](http://cfc.polyvoreimg.com/cgi/img-set/.sig/Y8O7Mb2bokKEkDr8hQsA/cid/214480271/id/WNuLyszU5hGKDK7YZFZllw/size/c600x745.jpg)


	116. Sit Next to Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts - _ifishouldvanish prompted: Neal drawing a picture of a cricket to give Archie_
> 
> _rowofstars said: Neal brings a gift or drawing for Archie. Neal "breaks" a minor part of his train set by trying to be like his Papa and take it apart so he can put it back together. Maybe he brings it with him and Rum shows him how to fix it and lets him do it himself. (Maurice will of course be suitably impressed later.)_

“It’s a cricket!” Neal announced happily, dropping down onto his knees next to his father after Belle took his coat. He pointed at the little brown insect with its wings spread open, its antennae drawn perhaps a tad too long. It was an artistic decision.

“I can see that,” Rummond said, inspecting the last drawing in the stack. He had a suspicion that it might not be for him. “What a wonderful cricket it is. Looks as if it may just fly off the page!”

“Belle found a picture in a book so I could see. I made it for Dr. Hopper.” Neal looked up at his Papa, suddenly unsure. “Is that okay?”

“You can draw for anyone you like,” Rummond told him. He wrapped an arm around his son, reassuring him. 

Belle gave Neal’s knee a gentle nudge with the back of her hand. “What else do you have to show your Papa?”

The little boy’s eyes widened a bit and he looked sidelong at his father.

“What is it you have for me?” Rummond asked.

Neal made a small humming sound before ducking out from under his Papa’s arm and crawling over behind Belle. He reached to open the picnic basket lid and took out a small cardboard box, holding it to his chest with one hand as he crawled over again. He plopped down between them and held the box out to his Papa.

“What is this?” Rummond opened the box’s flaps to peer into it. Inside was the engine of Neal’s model train, with its driving wheels, coupling rods, and cowcatcher lying loose alongside it. There were a couple of small screwdrivers, and a number of screws and pins rolling around in the bottom, as well.

“It won’t go back together,” Neal murmured sheepishly. “I tried.”

Rummond curled an arm around his son again. “What happened here?”

“What was it that you said when I asked what happened?” Belle grinned over the boy’s head at Rummond. 

Neal sighed, burrowing his face into his father’s ribs. “Papa takes things apart and fixes them again…”

Belle reached over, running a hand down the back of Neal’s hair. “I suggested that you might be able to help him put it back together.”

“Can you?” Neal asked, looking up at his Papa.

Rummond smiled down at him. “Oh, I believe I can.”

“Apparently Lumiere acted as an unwitting accomplice,” Belle said. “Neal asked for screwdrivers and Lumiere showed him to the tool cabinet.”

“Well, aren’t you enterprising?” He chuckled and dropped a kiss on top of his son’s head. “Come here. We’ll see what we can do about this, hm?”

Setting the box aside, Rummond pushed himself back against his pillow and lifted the boy into his lap. Neal wiggled, getting comfortable in the cradle of his father’s crossed legs, and leaned back against his chest. Rummond took out the model train engine and began by showing his son how to fit one of the wheels back onto its pin, giving both to him to try for himself.

Neal slipped one on and then the other, and he looked down to place them on the engine. When he realized that they wouldn’t go on in one piece, he hesitated. There was distress in his voice when he held up a pair of wheels on their pin and said, “I did it wrong…”

“That’s all right,” Rummond told him, giving his son’s chest a gentle pat with the flat of his hand. “We’ll fix it. Can you see what the mistake was?”

“The wheels won’t go on if they’re all put together first,” Neal said, having figured out as much.

Neal frowned thoughtfully at the bottom of the engine. He tilted it back and forth before picking the wheels up again and pulling them off the pin, giving the pieces a critical look. Taking the pin, he slipped it through the holes where he knew the wheels needed to go, and suddenly he understood.

“The wheels go on the inside and then this?” he asked, pulling the pin out and holding it up.

“Try that and we’ll see.”

They went slowly through the process of fitting the wheels on. With his Papa’s help, Neal experimented through a handful of methods before discovering one that worked to get the wheels in place and the pin secured through them. 

Rummond showed his son how to figure out which screw went where, then guided him through replacing the coupling rods, showing him how to so carefully place the screw into its hole. He held the slender metal rod stationary and allowed Neal to use one of the screwdrivers to turn each screw into place with small, steady hands. 

Belle watched as Neal concentrated, his embarrassment disappearing altogether into an expression of determination as his father guided him through the process of putting the engine back to rights. Each part Neal had taken off, they fixed. It took time and patience, but Rummond had more than enough of both when it came to his son. She wondered at how little he allowed for himself.

They had to put a pin in their reassembly long enough to have breakfast, but it didn’t take them long afterward to finish up with the little steam engine. With guidance from his Papa and a bit of help here and there, Neal had done the work on it himself.

“You’ve done a wonderful job,” Belle praised, handing the engine back to him after he’d given it to her for looking over.

Neal squirmed with pride and delight at her compliment, turning the toy over in his hands.

“Why don’t you go and wash up?” she suggested, nodding to the smudges of grease left on his fingers by the train parts. “And then you can ask Nurse Lucas if she might help you bring another cup of tea over.”

He handed the train engine over to his father and slid down off the bed, trotting off toward the washroom. Rummond watched until Neal had gone inside. When he turned to face Belle again with the intention of telling her what had happened on Friday evening after she’d left for her father’s dinner, he found her looking back. She smiled over at him, and there was something _in_ that smile.

“Oh, do I have something to tell _you,”_ she said before he could ask, scooting nearer to him.

“Do you?” he asked with a grin. “I was going to say much the same…”

Had she heard something more between Friday evening and this morning? She’d told him all about what she had heard while semi-accidentally eavesdropping on the head nurse’s office on Thursday, during what was presumably Dr. Coughlan’s final visit. He had been looking forward to telling her this newest account of the ongoing tailspin that seemed to be overtaking Nurse Mills’ conduct. 

“Really?” Belle narrowed her eyes curiously. If she were judging solely by the expression on Rummond’s face, she’d have guessed that something happened on the ward. And that had the potential to be far less friendly for a child’s ears than her own news. “You first.”

Rummond told her about the encounter that had been witnessed by the entire ward, from Commander Strand’s mishap to Nurse Nolan giving the head nurse a bit of a dressing down and what seemed to have been the first ‘no’ the woman had heard in a very long time.

Belle gasped as he recounted how Nurse Nolan declared that she was done being Nurse Mills’ personal liar. “She didn’t!”

“Right in front of God and everyone.”

“Well. It’s about time,” she said, proud of Nurse Nolan for finding enough steel in her spine to challenge the head nurse. 

He went on to tell Belle how Nurse Mills had declared Nurse Nolan fired, complete with the nurse’s cap virtually being thrown in her face and Nurse Nolan managing to get Strand’s bed re-made before the head nurse had one of the orderlies see her off hospital grounds. 

“Oh, for- As if we weren’t already shorthanded!” Belle’s smile fell. She dropped her head onto her hand. “Dr. Whale won’t even know yet, if it happened that late in the day. He’ll be fit to be tied. Or I hope he will be.”

The corner of Rummond’s mouth pulled in annoyance. “I’m not convinced he’ll do anything about her. Not until she’s done something awful enough by his standards.”

“The feeling I get from Ruby is that he’s working on it.”

“I suppose we should hope he isn’t too late figuring it out, then.”

Belle rested a hand on the blanket over his knee, hoping the same. “Rum, do you know anything about Nurse Mills’ sister?” she asked, lowering her voice.

“Only the same gossip you’ve heard,” he replied. “I know next to nothing about the head nurse herself. Nothing other than the bile of her.”

“The way she rails at you- I don’t know.” Belle frowned. She looked down at her hand where his had edged close, his thumb resting over her littlest finger. The border of the quilt she gave him for Christmas peeked out from the top edge of his hospital issue blankets. “She mentioned her sister in a tirade when I butted heads with her over you being in confinement. She seems to think you’ve wronged one of them somehow.”

“I don’t know _how,”_ Rummond said with a shake of his head. “I’d never set eyes on Nurse Mills before admitting myself here, much less a sister.”

Belle nodded, patting his knee. It was just so strange a thing, but the slip that the head nurse had made about her sister was the only clue she about this ridiculous vendetta.

Neal walked beside Ruby when they returned with the requested tea. She set the cup down in the empty spot on Rummond’s table next to his book. 

“Ruby, have you heard about…” Belle looked to Neal as he climbed onto the bed, squirming back into the now narrower space between herself and his father. “Nurse Nolan being let go?” she finished, mouthing the nurse’s name. She didn’t want Neal to connect it to Emma and become upset.

“No!” Ruby said, her arms crossing themselves over her chest in irritation.

“Friday evening.”

“Oh, good Lord. It’s gotten to the point where we can hardly leave the ward for disasters cropping up. What did she do?”

“Confronted the head nurse about some of the things she’s been up to,” Belle told her, abbreviating the explanation rather severely. 

“A fine time for her to develop some mettle. Couldn’t she have been subtle about it?” Ruby rolled her eyes, her arms dropping to her sides before she turned to stalk off.

“Where are you going?” Belle asked.

“I have a call to make!”

Rummond, who had stayed out of the exchange, lifted an eyebrow when she looked back to him.

“What?” she asked.

He chuckled. “I believe you’ve gotten Dr. Whale in trouble, now.”

After a half second of thought, Belle grinned. “Good.”

Neal fell back onto the bed, reaching for his little train engine and stretching his arms over his head to drive it across his father’s blanket, making quiet _choo-chooo_ noises for the steam. He didn’t seem to be paying attention to them, but Belle knew better.

“What was it that you wanted to tell me?” Rummond asked her.

“Oh!” She shifted on the bed, tucking her leg more tightly beneath her as she turned to face him. Her smile grew a bit more excited. “I told my father.”

“You told him… what?” he prompted after a moment when she didn’t seem to finish the thought.

“About you. About _us.”_

“You _told_ him?” Rummond’s expression opened into one of shock. When he realized that he couldn’t tell whether he simply looked at her in surprise or if he was giving her a look of horror, he consciously forced his expression calmer. “What did he say?”

A sparkle lit her eyes in response to his reaction. “It… took him a few minutes to get used to the idea.”

“What triggered this? I thought you were-” He cleared his throat softly. “I mean, I hadn’t realized you meant to tell him just yet.”

“I didn’t. It might have come out somewhere in the middle of an argument.” Belle cringed. She was going to have to tell Rummond about the entire evening, then. That hadn’t quite been her plan.

“An argument?”

“After the dinner party. He invited Donat’s mother, trying to spark some reconciliation.” She waved a hand, dismissing the notion entirely. “I got a bit fed up with it all and told him so. He had it in his head that Donat and I would ‘patch things up,’ and I just couldn’t stand it any longer.”

“He does strike me as a tad headstrong.” Rummond decided not to remark upon how the trait had been passed down. Belle’s intractability was one of the things he adored about her - that didn’t mean it was wise to point it out.

“When it comes to some things, yes. Very.” She kept herself from going into it too much further. That was over and done with, and she was glad of it. “I’m glad that I told him. I should have told him before.”

Neal turned onto his side, driving the engine down next to his face and bringing it to a stop as he made a _ding-ding, ding-ding_ sound in imitation of a train’s bell.

“But he wasn’t upset? Or angry?” Rummond asked.

“Not really, no. He didn’t understand at first. I had to spell it out.” She reached over, brushing Neal’s hair out of his eyes. The little boy gave her a smile in return. “But that’s just Papa.”

“So, if I happened to cross paths with him soon, he wouldn’t be out for blood?”

Belle laughed, leaning to take the hand he hadn’t realized held onto an anxious fistful of blanket until she curled her fingers in with his. “No. He’s fine about it. It might take him a little time to wrap his mind around it completely, but he isn’t angry.”

A small amount of tension left Rummond when she took his hand. 

“He wants me to be happy, and he very mistakenly assumed that Donat was the best way to ensure that. I made sure that my father realized how _wrong_ he was in that belief.”

“And he’s accepting it?”

“He seems to be. I don’t think he’ll be pushing the situation any longer, anyway.”

“It’s up to you, what makes you happy,” Rummond said, nodding. “No one else can decide that for you.”

_“You_ make me happy,” she told him. “I wouldn’t be with you, if you didn’t.”

For a few moments, her response stole his ability to form words. “I make you happy?”

“You do.” Belle smiled and tugged at his hand, something seeming to squeeze around her heart as he stared at her in awe. He shouldn’t have had to be so floored at the fact that he could make someone happy. When the wonder in his face didn’t fade, she wanted to be certain that he could have no doubt about how she felt when she was with him. “You make me happier than I’ve ever been, Rummond.”

His hand tightened around hers, and her heart clenched again when she found his eyes shining with tears. 

He had to work to keep his voice steady before he could speak again. “You make me happy, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (If anyone might be interested - I’ve put a book up for sale on Amazon! The title is _Husk_ , and you can find further [information and links here](http://ishtarelisheba.tumblr.com/post/155367145116).)


	117. The Future Influences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( _Better to Face the Bullets_ has been nominated in The Espenson Awards over on tumblr! If you’re on tumblr and enjoy this fic, _please_ consider going over and voting for it in the categories of **Best Historical AU** and **Best (worst) Villain**! The nominations lists are [here](http://theespensonawards.tumblr.com/post/156247608340/masterlist-of-nominations-pt1) and [here](http://theespensonawards.tumblr.com/post/156247621275/masterlist-of-nominations-pt2), and you can submit your votes for anything on the ballot [right here](http://theespensonawards.tumblr.com/submits). Voting begins on January 29 and ends on February 4 at 11:59pm cst. Now, on to this week’s chapter! :D)

He saw Belle from the corner of his eye as she approached his bunk a bit after breakfast. Closing his book, he prepared to get up, knowing why. She stopped by to sit and keep company many times during the course of a day, but it was of a certain time on Monday morning, and there was only one thing that she could be coming over for just now.

“Time for your appointment,” she said, walking into the space next to him with the soft click of her work shoes on the tile.

She didn’t stop near her usual spot at his beside. She walked right up beside him and lifted a hand to slide her fingertips along the back of his neck, giving the ends of his hair the gentlest of tugs. The sensation gave his stomach a most pleasant flip.

Her touch drew a sigh from him. “I suppose I should go on, hm?”

She grinned and stroked the ends of his hair between her fingers again. “I’m sure Dr. Hopper would appreciate it.”

Nurse Mills had taken a day to travel out for a visit to her sister, and the ward was at some precarious peace, however temporary. A touch was permissible for now. He loathed how they had to so closely guard how often they came into any manner of physical contact lest they provoke the woman.

Belle’s fingers grazed the shell of his ear and he tilted into the touch before it disappeared. Looking up, Rummond found her smiling warmly down at him. 

“I’ll see you when you get back. I’ve a few tasks to get to, but I can sit for a while after I have them sorted,” she told him, touching his cheek before she stepped away again.

He watched her continue on down the aisle to check in on her patients. Every hold of her hand, every touch to his hair or face, even a hand rested on his arm or knee left his heart desperate for more. They would actually get to have that someday, touching without having to hide or pull away, but someday couldn’t arrive soon enough. 

He cleared his head with a deep breath and folded his covers back so that he could get up. After taking his cane and stepping into his slippers, and pulling the leather tool case from his drawer, he sorted through the ever-growing stack of drawings on his bedside table. There was only one from the bunch not meant for himself, and he slipped it out from the others.

Rummond carried the drawing carefully rolled in his hand so that it wouldn’t become wrinkled or crushed on the walk down to Dr. Hopper’s office. It was important to Neal, and so it was important to him that it was delivered well.

When he turned the corner onto the corridor where the doctor’s office sat, he found Humbert standing just outside and Dr. Hopper lingering in the doorway. They hovered there as they talked, and Rummond slowed his steps a bit so that he wouldn’t interrupt too quickly.

“Ah, I see my patient on his way,” Dr. Hopper said, and Humbert took a step back so that he no longer blocked the way in. The doctor stepped out into the hallway to allow Rummond into the office. “Come in, make yourself at home. I’ll only be a moment.”

“Good morning, Captain,” Humbert said with a polite nod of his head and a genuine smile.

Rummond returned the pair of gestures before stepping inside. “Morning.”

He couldn’t blame the boy for taking a detour around to the doctor’s office. Taking on nurse’s duties meant that Humbert no longer often escorted patients to and from appointments out to this wing. Rummond knew that he would go out of his way to put himself in Belle’s path, himself, whenever possible were they in the same position.

“Lunch?” he heard Dr. Hopper ask, and Humbert murmured agreement before leaving the doctor to his work.

Rummond waited, standing before the doctor’s desk until he stepped back inside and closed the door. He waited until Dr. Hopper went around to his chair before holding out the little piece of art. “My boy drew something for you.”

Dr. Hopper’s smile brightened as he took the curled paper and sat. He decided before so much as having a look at it that he would have it framed. He’d had patients gift him things here and there over the course of his career, but never a piece of art.

Spreading the drawing open on his blotter, he shook his head. “My goodness,” he said, examining the cricket with an eye that was not unbiased in favor of its artist. “Neal did well with the anatomy. The coloring, as well. He’s quite good, isn’t he?”

“He practices a great deal,” Rummond responded with pride. He took the tool case from under his arm, where he’d walked with it pinned, and set it on the sofa cushion before fetching his current repair in progress from the bookcase.

Dr. Hopper set the drawing aside, pinning its corners down with a few curios off his desk. He wanted to enjoy having it displayed for himself, but it would be a good thing to have on the wall the next time young Neal came in, as well.

Quietly, he brought out Captain Gold’s file and opened his notebook on top of it, waiting until his patient had gotten settled. When he had his work area set up, Dr. Hopper asked, “Is there anything in particular that _you_ would like to talk about today, Captain?”

It was a common enough question at the beginning of a session that Rummond didn’t raise an eyebrow. “Nothing especially.”

“I thought perhaps we might take today’s appointment to discuss your plans, then,” the doctor went on.

“Plans?”

“For the future. Your plans once you leave the hospital.”

Rummond looked up. “You’re thinking of discharging me?” he asked a bit too quickly.

The idea of it set butterflies flapping about in his stomach and crowding up into the back of his throat. He wasn’t certain whether it was a good feeling or a bad one. He wanted to leave the hospital, wanted to make a home with his son and Belle. But he also worried that he was too far from ready to make a successful go of it. He wasn’t confident that he could leave and go through the entire process again the way he’d seen some men forced to endure.

“Not _just_ yet,” Dr. Hopper reassured him. “I think it’s worth thinking about and discussing, though, is it not?”

With the doctor’s response, Rummond took an easier breath. It was only talk, then. There was no hurry. “Couldn’t hurt to have a conversation,” he agreed.

“You have your son. You’re in what appears to be a stable romantic relationship. Your financial situation has improved,” Dr. Hopper observed, watching his patient as he remarked upon the bettering of Captain Gold’s situation beyond the hospital. “Have you had more thoughts about what you’ll do once you leave here?”

Rummond hummed softly, picking up a delicate wheel with a tweezer and careful hands. For the first time in years, he didn’t feel like a watch movement wound too tight. Despite certain tensions on the ward, he felt as if he were on a somewhat even keel these days, though he was very aware that all was not perfectly well with him quite yet.

“I’ve thought about my employment situation,” he began.

The doctor sat a bit forward, resting his folded hands on his desk. “Have you?” he encouraged. 

“Mm. Besides the fact of how unlikely it is anyone would hire me on, there’s the problem of reliability,” Rummond said, peering at the wheel before he laid it in. “I worry- no, I _know_ there’ll be days when I won’t be able to go in to work, and that’d get me fired just that much quicker.”

Dr. Hopper found himself a bit concerned about what Captain Gold said. His patient’s remarks had merit. It might well be difficult for him to obtain and keep a job for a whole host of reasons, including the reputation that had been forced upon him, as well as his hospital stay. It was an upsetting reality for most of the servicemen on the east ward, once they’d been discharged. The doctor had wondered whether Captain Gold would still come to some conclusion either way regarding work after inheriting. As needful as the Captain was of some manner of occupation for his mind and hands alike, it didn’t seem a good idea to remain idle day in and day out.

“With your accounts restored and your, ah- your… inheritance, you do have quite a cushion.”

“Aye, and it’ll be put to use now and again by need, particularly at the get-go,” Rummond allowed. It wasn’t something he liked the fact of at all, but he had to admit to himself that it would be necessary, if he was going to make any sort of comfortable life for his son. “I don’t want that to be what we _live_ on, though. And I need something to do, as well. I truly would go mad, were I to sit with naught to do save twiddle my thumbs.”

Captain Gold seemed somewhat at ease in their conversation. He was nowhere near as filled with anxiety as Dr. Hopper had worried he might become when deciding on the direction to take this morning’s session. He’d braced himself for a wide array of emotional responses, and thus far they were on the most positive end of that spectrum.

“You have some thoughts about what you’ll do, then?” the doctor asked.

“Some,” Rummond said with a nod. He fiddled with the screwdriver he’d picked up. “I’ve an idea about opening up a watchmaking and repair shop, going into business for myself.” He cast a look over at the doctor, eager for the man’s reaction.

“That sounds as if it will be quite the endeavor,” Dr. Hopper said.

“Oh, I’ve no doubt,” Rummond agreed. “But I know the work. I’m _good_ at the work. And running it all myself, I won’t be sacked if I can’t open the shop a day or two here and there. It’ll be fairly constant business, I believe. People will always need watches and other bits of clockwork, and need them repaired, as well.”

The doctor gave him a kind smile. Such a shop sounded like an excellent idea for all the reasons his patient had thought through. “It sounds as though you have a solid plan.”

“Do I?” Rummond smiled in return. A solid plan. A way to support himself and Neal without making them solely dependent on Malcolm Gold’s money. He took the flywheel from the handkerchief and fit it carefully into place. “I suppose I do.”

“Do you have any thoughts on where you might live after you’ve been discharged?” Dr. Hopper asked when the Captain set down one tool in exchange for another. 

“I have. I’ve been considering that since I got my boy back,” Rummond said. ‘Considering’ was putting it mildly. He’d agonized over it before more possibilities had been opened to them. The idea of having to take his son back to either the filthy tenement or the house they’d lived in before had broken his heart. “Lieutenant Hargreaves’ family has my old house, not that I ever wanted to return there, anyway. I was thinking I’ll have a friend help me to hire a flat nearby. Something _nice_ that’ll do for a little while.”

“Near here?” the doctor asked. 

“Aye. I’d prefer staying in the vicinity for… multiple reasons.”

“Ah, yes. Your son is in school not far from here.”

“That would be one such reason,” Rummond hedged. “I would like to keep him there, where he’s become accustomed to attending, knows his teachers, made friends, all that.”

Dr. Hopper only half attempted to smother his grin. “Nurse French lives quite near the hospital, does she not?” he asked, knowing well where she lived.

“She does,” Rumond acknowledged before shifting the topic back to living arrangements. “I’d only be staying in the flat, Neal and I would, until I could find and buy a suitable house.”

“What would a suitable house look like?”

“A nice place. Sizable but not sprawling. Large enough for a family,” he said, making much of being distracted by the pocketwatch. “Something lovely and cosie.”

“I believe there _are_ a good few houses for sale in neighborhoods nearby,” Dr. Hopper offered helpfully.

“We’ll see what’s there when I’m able to walk around them myself,” the Captain said. Dr. Hopper didn’t miss his use of ‘we,’ but he didn’t comment on it, either.

Rummond went quiet, going back to the watch. “There are times I feel as if I’m waiting for the moment when everything falls apart again,” he admitted after a few minutes. “Just _waiting_ for the day I’ll end up back in that tenement with a gun in my hand.”

“You’ve rebuilt a great deal during your time here, Captain Gold, and you have rebuilt it solidly. I won’t lie to you and claim you’ll never again have a downswing, or pretend that your injury will never flare up. You do have a sturdy foundation, though,” Dr. Hopper assured him. “And I believe that you’ve healed enough to understand how to repair - or to ask for help with those repairs - if things begin to feel shaky.”

Looking down into the half assembled pocketwatch in front of him, Rummond frowned. “I hope you’re right.”

“I realize it’s far easier said than done, but try not to dwell upon the negative situations that your mind feeds you,” the doctor gently counseled. “When they crop up, distract yourself if possible, until they no longer needle at you. Or you might tell someone you trust. At any point in a downswing, you can let someone know that things might not be just right with you. Asking for help shouldn’t be reserved as your last option, and you don’t have to wait until you feel that your wellbeing has hit bottom to say something.”

Rummond nodded his understanding. “I’ll do my best to keep it in mind.”

“When those thoughts prey on one, it isn’t always easy to reach out.” Dr. Hopper gave him a sympathetic look. “I understand that the most anyone can do is their best when those sorts of days come around to plague you.”

When his patient remained quiet, he went on to remind him, “My office is always open to you, Captain. I do have discharged patients who come in time to time when they’ve need of a talk. A call to schedule is all it takes, and in an urgent situation, you can come right in. The desk clerk can call me at home if I’m not here. I don’t mind at all.”

Captain Gold didn’t look up, but he nodded again. Dr. Hopper accepted that as evidence of his patient having heard him. The Captain _had_ been able to have someone call him in once before on a particularly bad night, and he could only have faith that the same would be possible in the future. 

With all he’d hoped to accomplish in Captain Gold’s session resolved, Dr. Hopper was allowing the last five minutes to wind down in a companionable silence when his patient spoke up again.

“Belle and I, we’ve talked over marriage a bit…” Rummond said a little shyly, clearing his throat after the confession. It had taken him much of the appointment to work up to mentioning it. 

Dr. Hopper looked up from where he worked on filling in his notes on the session, a smile of surprise on his face. “Have you?” he said cheerfully. “You know, you might have led with that.”

“Well I-” Rummond shrugged, one corner of his mouth tugging into a grin. “I suppose I’ve been enjoying the knowledge being only ours for a while. You won’t say anything?”

“No, no, of course not.” The doctor shook his head. “What was that conversation like? If you don’t mind discussing it.”

Remembering the events of the encounter that it had happened directly after, Rummond’s face warmed. Dr. Hopper didn’t need to know anything about _that._ “Not terribly lengthy. Statements of intention, for the most part. She’s agreeable. And we talked about being a family, the three of us.” His smile turned soft.

“Have either of you brought up that possibility with your son?” Dr. Hopper asked.

Rummond found himself giving a soft snicker as he thought of the drawing Neal had shown him. Belle’s back garden, a white dress and his Christmas suit - a child’s concept of what a wedding must be. It still gave him a thrill of joy to know that his son so enthusiastically wanted Belle to be a permanent part of their lives.

“No discussion about what we’ve decided, as such,” he said. “I believe Neal will be on board with the idea, though.”

“Well,” the doctor said, pushing his glasses up and sitting back in his desk chair. “That’s wonderful. All of it.”

“I don’t suppose it’s official just yet. I’ve not been down on my knee, there’s no ring-”

“Still, congratulations. And I’ll give you another when you do make it official. I’m happy for _all_ of you.”

The feeling of lightness that poured through Rummond was so different from the perception of being too light and untethered that he had when he was hurtling into a downswing that it startled him. It had never occurred to him that a similar sensation could carry such markedly different emotions along with it. 

Rummond’s smile broadened and the bright, warm feeling that filled his chest was so overwhelming that he could almost imagine it might shine right through him to fill the room. Someone was downright and unreservedly _happy_ for them.


	118. Liquidation

She could see Rummond bent close over something. The case of watchmaking tools lay unrolled beside him and the tin of parts sat open next to it. Every once in a while, he exchanged one tool for another or sifted through the tin. His attention was split between concentrating on this _something_ and glancing up to find her on the ward. When he didn’t find her nearby, he returned to his task.

He had been fiddling with the something off and on for a couple of weeks now. Every time her back was turned, he brought it out to work, and no matter how quiet she thought herself upon approach, he managed to ‘subtly’ cover it and apply a fine attempt at innocence to his face before she could get a good look. Belle’s curiosity burned, but she allowed him his secret.

Rummond performed the same quick concealment when she headed over after midmorning rounds, looking up at her with a smile. As she took her seat, he gingerly opened his book on top of the handkerchief he’d folded over whatever it was that he worked on. 

“You’ve made progress! What point are you at?” she asked with a grin.

His expression was blank for a split second before he recovered. “Miss Allan was just declaring that people are like their boots.”

“I always did wonder where she was going with that.” Belle used the way she leaned to look at the page to speak more quietly to him. “Ruby had a talk with Dr. Whale about Nurse Nolan.” 

“Oh?” The hint of caginess in his features disappeared in favor of piqued interest. “And what did he have to say?”

“Dr. Whale overrode Nurse Mills’ decision to fire her,” she said, her brows raising as they had when Ruby passed the information along. “When he brought Nurse Nolan in to explain and rectify the situation, she refused to take her position back. According to Ruby, she said something along the lines of, ‘I wouldn’t return to this hospital if you doubled my salary.’”

Rummond snorted softly. “Can you blame her?”

“Not one iota.” Belle sat back, reaching into her apron pocket to fish out one of the cherry cream candies she’d found on her last venture out to London with Neal. She twisted it open and popped it into her mouth. “It does still leave us shorthanded, though. And heaven knows what the head nurse will do without her errand girl.”

“Run her own errands?”

“Unlikely. For one thing, running her own errands might stand in the way of being a thorn in the side of the hospital’s collective consciousness.”

She looked up as the ward door opened wide and the familiar form of Ms. Jasper Wock strode through, stopping to pick up a chair before continuing their way. 

“You’ve a visitor,” Belle said, nodding to the approaching solicitor.

Rummond closed his book and set it aside, hurrying to fold the handkerchief beneath it into a small and careful package before tucking it away in the drawer. “Ms. Wock,” he greeted, taking her hand as she extended it for a shake. 

“Good morning, Captain,” she greeted, giving a nod to Belle. “Nurse French.” 

She divested herself of her coat and hat, taking her attaché case from the seat of the chair before folding herself languidly into it. Ms. Wock had only just brought out a heavy sheaf of papers when Belle heard her name.

“Nurse French, I need a bit of help,” Nurse Halloran called from down the aisle.

Belle turned to see Ariel standing next to Captain Lapointe, a wad of removed bandages in her hand and a distressed look on her face. She knew immediately what it was about.

The burns between Lapointe’s right eye and temple remained open half of the time. Though it had taken months after his initial admittal, the rest of his mustard gas burns had healed well, considering the damage and cause. That particular area simply refused to heal completely. Belle frowned. Perhaps it was time to break out the neosalvarsan; its effects couldn’t be more dangerous than risking sepsis from yet another infection. 

She turned back to Rummond. “Do you need me here?” she asked, her hand moving to lay over his knee without her quite realizing it. “If you do, I can ask Ruby to help her.”

He rested his hand on top of hers, their fingers overlapping. “I’ll be fine. It’s only shop talk, I expect.”

“You’re sure? Honestly?” The look she gave dared him to lie to her.

“I’m positive. I’ll be all right,” he promised. 

She turned her hand to squeeze his and it slipped away as she stood. “I”ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Sweet…” Ms. Wock said, not so absorbed in the ongoing task of separating groups of papers into a staggered stack on her lap as she’d pretended.

Rummond eyed the solicitor warily before deciding that she meant no ridicule by her observation. “She worries.”

“As though someone might eat you, left to your own devices.” She chuckled, turning the papers on their edge so that they fell into a neat corner in her hands. “You can assure her that my tastes run to a softer figure.”

He wasn’t quite sure how to respond, and he floundered silently for a moment before nodding to the documents that she held. “Everything has been taken care of?”

“Yes, indeed. A number of things require your signature, but thus far all has gone smoothly. The mansion has been sold.” Ms. Wock slid the top group of papers off the stack and held it out to him. “House, furnishings and all, brought just over one million pounds.”

Rummond’s hand froze in midair, the documents drooping when he didn’t move. “A million…”

“Pounds, yes,” his solicitor confirmed. “I’ve marked the pages you’ll need to sign.”

His head spun and his stomach sank at the same time, leaving him with a strange feeling between them. He shook his head in an attempt to reclaim his wits. “You took everything out of his investments, as well?”

“Every penny belonging to Malcolm Gold that I could wring out is in the secondary bank account you asked me to set up.” Ms. Wock passed another small sheaf across to him, then another, and another. “After everything was liquidated - full estate, properties, investments, and so on - it amounts to just under one and one half million pounds.”

Gobsmacked mildly described how Rummond felt. He leafed through the proof in paperwork with an open mouth, finding circled amounts at the end of long columns of numbers and lines with X’s beside them in wait of his signature.

“And what of his debts?” he asked a bit weakly.

“That amount would be _after_ all debts are subtracted,” she said, holding even more papers out for him, these detailing the debt his father had created. “He had very little liquid. The vast majority was tied up in the estate, various land and establishment purchases, _et cetera._ He’d just enough for a couple months’ worth of expenses in his accounts, and it seems that’s the way it went every month. I can’t make heads nor tails of the irregular nature of the properties, but everything sold quite readily upon being listed.”

“There’s no contest to it? No further debts owed? Nothing?”

“None as far as I’ve been able to locate, and I dug deep to be certain of it. As Malcolm Gold’s sole heir, the full remaining balance is yours to dispose of as you will.”

Rummond frowned down at the papers. The money was his. He felt as though he should be happier to have so much at his fingertips, particularly after dismantling everything his father had built, but he still felt dirty.

He cast around for a pen and Ms. Wock pulled one from her bag, offering it between her thumb and forefinger. Flipping through the documents once more, he signed each space indicated.

“Does your firm take care of investments?” he asked, scratching his name across the last line in one stapled set of documents and passing it back into the solicitor’s waiting hand.

“We do,” she replied.

“I want to invest a portion. A third of the balance, perhaps. Something reasonably safe,” Rummond told her. “Can you put together some possibilities?”

“Easily done. I can have a list of possibilities delivered by Monday.” She took another fountain pen and a notepad held in a slick leather cover from her bag and began writing. 

“You needn’t rush it. I only wish it done by the time I’m discharged.”

“The sooner it’s taken care of, the better, where such money is concerned,” she said, finishing something with a whipping flourish of her pen.

“Also…” He fidgeted with the edge of the papers that detailed the contents of his father’s house and the amount each item had brought at sale, feeling oddly self-conscious over his next request. “I want to set up an annual charitable donation.”

Ms. Wock nodded as her pen met the paper again. “How much are you considering?”

He hadn’t the first notion what amount might be appropriate. Rather certain that the organization he wished to aid could use a great deal of financial help, he erred on the higher side. “Ten thousand?”

“You’ll make it back in investments easily,” the solicitor replied, making note of the sum. “And where is this to go?”

Rummond hesitated a beat before explaining. “The London chapter of the NSPCC.” When she glanced up at him as though his choice were a surprise, he turned his attention back to the documents in his lap. “I want it to help the children themselves as much as possible. Stipulate that, if you can.”

After she had finished making note of his requests and he’d finished signing the last of the marked blanks, Ms. Wock took the remaining papers back. She filed them away in her case again and brought out a set of documents containing the details of his new financial situation. Sitting forward on the chair, she gave them to him.

“For your own purposes,” she said, sliding the buckle on the flap of her attaché case back into place. “I believe that’s everything, unless you’ve any questions?”

“None that I can think of.” Rummond folded the papers loosely over in his hand.

“If you do think of anything, you know how to get in contact with my office.”

He nodded and she stood to get back into her coat, shaking his hand again.

“I do hope that you and your nurse have a good day,” Ms. Wock said, giving him a brash wink before taking her things and leaving the ward in just such a stride as she’d come in with.

It took Belle a little while longer to finish up and return to him, giving him plenty of time to mull over the papers his solicitor had left him with in private. 

“Well,” she said when she sat next to him again, pulling her feet up to catch her heels on the bed frame rail. “What did Ms. Wock have to say?”

He gave her a bewildered shake of his head, handing the paperwork to her in lieu of trying to find the words to explain. 

Belle leafed through, her jaw dropping a little more with each page. “Rummond! This is-” She slapped the papers down onto her lap, smiling up at him.

“I can pay my hospital bill. In full,” he said, still in a bit of shock over it.

She laughed. “I would say so! How many times over!”

“And I can reimburse you for Neal’s care, for-” he began, but she interrupted the thought.

 _“No.”_ She shook her head, her smile falling into a look of gentle reproval. “You never need to worry about that.”

“Belle, you’ve been taking care of him for nearly six months,” he argued. “I know how much it costs to look after a child as well as you have, and now I can return that to you.”

“It’s been my pleasure to do it. Neal is… he’s…”

She couldn’t presume to say aloud just how much Neal _felt_ like hers, or how she would feel as if a part of herself were being taken when it was time for him to go back to his father. But even entertaining the idea of taking money for caring for him felt wrong, and she would have none of it.

“He’s been wonderful. I’ve told you how I adore him.” Belle handed the papers back. “If you want to buy things for _him,_ that’s absolutely your right. But I won’t take your money in some manner of remuneration. It’s unnecessary.”

Rummond gave her a doubtful look. “And what about your savings for school?”

“My savings are just fine, thank you,” she said. There was a bit of a dent in it, but not much more than usually occurred after Christmas. Even had it been greater, she wouldn’t have admitted it to him.

He made a soft _hmph_ sound, shaking the papers at her. “You wouldn’t tell me if they weren’t.”

Belle narrowed her eyes at him, though she had difficulty holding back her smile. It broke through after only a second. They’d grown to know one another too well.

“Would you take these home with you?” he asked quietly, gesturing with the paperwork in his hand. “I don’t particularly want them in my things here. Too many fingers liable to poke around.”

“Of course. Keep your eyes on them until my shift is over and I’ll take them,” she said. She let her hand rest on his knee again, taking advantage of what was surely a temporarily quiet ward. “This is a good thing. Regardless of where the money originated, it means _good_ things for you and Neal. It’s what you do with it that matters.”

“I know,” he said, leaning back against his pillow and the headboard of his bunk. He had to keep their discussions on just that in mind to reconcile any eventual use of it.

Rational thought told him that she was right. Entirely right. The money meant safety and comfort for his son, as he’d been telling himself since finding out about the whole mess. Neal would never want for anything, and there was profound relief in knowing that. Still, he had trouble with the emotional aspect of using his father’s money. He hoped that it would lessen with time.

“I don’t suppose you have more news from around the hospital, do you?” he asked. “Something that doesn’t revolve around the head nurse and all that misery?”

Belle grinned, scooting a little closer so that she could lower her voice. “Well, I did hear of some to-do on the west ward.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _So, we’re well into the last quarter of the story now! I believe I have plans for all of the plotty strings still dangling, but if you’re worried about anything that you feel needs tying up before the end, please let me know and I’ll make double-sure I have it in my outline. If you have prompts you’ve been sitting on, this is the time to send those along, too._
> 
> _Also,[TEA voting](http://theespensonawards.tumblr.com) ends tomorrow. I won’t do the whole paragraph of spiel again, but if you have a tumblr blog, please consider voting for BtFtB in its nominated categories!_


	119. The Minute I Heard My First Love Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts - _rowofstars prompted: Something immediately following the last chapter where Belle comes back to check on Rum and he's still kinda in shock about how much money he has and she's concerned but he lets her now he's just kinda processing things and that well he's definitely set. For a loooong time. Maybe he tells her about the charity donations and she's just all moon eyes about it._
> 
> _noora7 prompted: Maybe Rum mentions that he's also glad for the funds because he'd love to help Belle set up her own practice?_
> 
> _Anonymous said: Ok, how about just them casually talking about the future, in love and confident in their relationship. And a forehead kiss. I need a forehead kiss in this story._

Rummond had gone to sleep shortly after lights out. On her first walk to perform checks, she’d seen his face relaxed and half-buried in his pillow. He seemed to sleep most nights, now - at least a couple of hours’ worth. Perhaps he didn’t get as much as he ideally should, but it was enough that her concern over his insomnia had fallen away.

She sat in her chair at the front of the ward, paging through a medical journal brought from home. Her timing was on the dot, she found when she checked her watch. Eleven o’clock and time for her walk. At the end of her check, she headed up the aisle in Rummond’s direction, and she veered toward him to indulge herself in another look.

Belle found him curled in too tightly, taut as a bowstring. She stepped around so that she could see his face. His features were pinched, grief-stricken. A small wet spot had developed beneath his cheek on the pillow case. She hated to wake him, as recently as he’d begun getting a half decent amount of sleep. When his next breath drew in a shudder, though, she knew that she couldn’t leave him to his dream.

She set her lantern down on his book and leaned over him, cradling her hand against his cheek. Stroking over his cheekbone with her thumb, she coaxed him back to her. “Rummond, wake up. Come on, wake up for me.”

He startled when he woke, pulling back and looking wild-eyed up at her. Something like guilt poured into his expression, and he buried his face in his pillow.

“Nightmare?” she asked gently, though she was certain it had been. A muffled groan came back to her in reply. She sat down next to him, giving his arm what she hoped was a comforting pet. “Can you talk about it?”

For a moment, he didn’t move and she thought he might have fallen back to sleep. Then he pushed up onto one elbow, and she settled her hand on her lap as he turned to sit up in the bed. He didn’t look at her as he pulled the blankets that had fallen off closer around him again.

“I was living in my father’s mansion,” he told her quietly, the hurt of it evident in his voice. “I’d turned into him. And I had Neal with me.”

“You aren’t going to turn into him,” Belle whispered. Simply knowing that Rummond worried about such a thing made her heart ache for him. “You’re nothing like that man.”

Rummond plucked at a loose thread in the edge of the top blanket. He still couldn’t bring himself meet her eyes. Not with it playing out over and over in his head. “I hurt Neal. I was screaming at him. Shaking him. I was-” 

He swallowed over a wave of nausea. He’d been treating son the way his father treated him, and it was unconscionable to even _dream_ about it.

“Oh…” Belle breathed when she understood. “It was no more than a nightmare, Rum. Besides the fact that the house has been sold, Neal is safe in bed right this moment. Mrs. Potts would have had him tucked in hours ago. He’s perfectly safe.”

Rummond nodded, watching her hand as she reached over to take his hand from where his fingers worried at the thread. “He’s safe. I know he’s safe.”

“And you are _nothing_ like Malcolm,” she assured him again.

“I’m beginning to wish I’d had it razed. Sold everything else, and just had that monstrosity knocked down, had the foundation of it broken up and salted the ground.” He scowled. It was more than that, even - he wished he could have taken the place apart with his bare hands.

“I believe Dr. Hopper would say something akin to…” She took a moment to carefully consider her words. “Nightmares reflect fears, not reality. You fear being like Malcolm, and having all of the terrible experiences with him in your head, your nightmare paired what _did_ happen to you with one of the things you fear most.”

“Hurting Neal,” he said. That part, he understood.

“Something you would never do. You know that.”

He nodded. It didn’t make having the nightmare playing through his thoughts any less insufferable, though.

“And Neal knows that, too. He knows you would never hurt him.” Belle ducked her head, at last catching his eye. She smiled. “He thinks the sun rises and sets on you. And you know, I don’t believe he’s all _that_ far off.”

Rummond huffed a soft laugh through his nose. “Hardly.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that. Neal is a smart boy.” She rocked their hands back and forth a little, not satisfied until a small smile finally broke through the distress in his features. “I’ll be right back. I’m just going over there to get my book,” she said, pointing to the front left corner of the ward before she stood.

He watched as she walked over, nearly disappearing into the darkness. Belle took something from the seat of her chair and turned with a swish of her skirts before returning to him. She perched on the edge of his bunk again, right up next to him, so near that her knee touched his when she tucked one folded leg beneath her to get comfortable.

“You’re going to stay?” he asked.

“I thought I would. There’s no one prying too hard, and I can see just as well with my lantern here.” She opened the journal back to the page she’d left off of. “If you feel like going back to sleep, go on. I’ll be right here.”

“I don’t believe I’ll be sleeping any more tonight,” Rummond muttered, watching as she smoothed the open pages with her hand. He looked up at her. “The company would be nice.”

“Then company I’ll be,” she replied.

He took his cards from the bedside table drawer and Belle found her place in the article she’d been interested in, continuing her reading about a bit of new research into diabetes mellitus while he shuffled them thoroughly. He laid out the cards and seemed to begin playing Six-by-Six, though she wasn’t sure whether he actually played or only fiddled with the arrangement. Either way, he was occupying himself.

When Rummond stopped to stare at a card held in his hand, she kept aware of him but resisted looking over. She silently counted off a few minutes of his lack of movement before turning to him. 

“All right?” she whispered.

He nodded. “Only thinking.”

“Penny for your thoughts, then?”

He hummed, glancing up at her. “Oh, they aren’t worth that much.”

She tilted her head at him in quiet expectation, and he sighed. He tossed the card down onto the others in front of him and rested his hand so that the back pressed against the outside of her thigh. Not a second passed before she slipped her own hand into his, and a comforting warmth spread into him as she curled her fingers around it, nestling their palms together.

“It’s ridiculous,” he warned.

“I doubt that.”

“I was thinking about the money again.”

“That isn’t ridiculous.”

His brow creased, his lips thinning in some manner of confused frustration.. “It’s difficult to wrap my mind around there being that much money in the realm, much less in my own accounts.”

Belle realized how rarely she considered how well off her family was, and she was taken aback a little at that thought. She supposed it was a mark of how privileged she was, to never have to _think_ of money. Suddenly, she better understood why Rummond worried so about her savings. 

“How are you feeling about it now?” she asked.

“Odd. Relieved,” he said, looking down at the dark silhouette of their hands against her apron. “Still rather disconcerted. But I do know it’s a good thing. I know that. There’s things I can do with that money, if necessary.”

“You’re hoping to leave it unspent?”

He gave a soft, disgruntled hum. “It won’t go utterly unspent. There’ll be things I have to use it for. Unfortunately. And a thing or two I’ll actually be glad to spend it on.”

“Really?” It was the first she’d heard from him about being _glad_ to spend any part of his inheritance. 

“Mm.” His mouth twisted a little in thought before he spoke again. “I set up a stipend of sorts while the solicitor was here.”

“A stipend? For what?” she asked, encouraging him to go on.

“Dr. Hopper mentioned a children’s charity a while back. An organization set up to help children who’ve been victims of cruelty.” His thumb stroked distractedly against her knuckles. “I thought it appropriate for some of _that_ money go back to help them.”

“Rummond…” Belle felt caught between pride in and sympathy for him. Tears stung behind her eyes. He was trying to protect children in the very way he’d so desperately needed and hadn’t been. 

He noticed the way she looked at him, but he couldn’t quite figure out what her expression meant. “Did I not do the right thing? Should I have gone to them directly? Or should I-”

“Oh, no, I didn’t-” She shook her head, smiling. “You did a good thing. A _wonderful_ thing. You’ll help _so many_ children, sweetheart.”

He shrugged a shoulder, blinking quickly as he looked down at their hands again. “I hope so.”

“What else were you thinking of spending it on?” Belle asked.

“A watch shop. Watchmaking and repairs. I think it’ll be fairly sure, as far as any business might go.”

“With your talent, I’m absolutely sure that it will be,” she agreed, excited for him at the prospect. “Nearly everyone has a watch to be looked after.”

“I told Dr. Hopper that very thing.” Rummond grinned. “And I was thinking of a house. A nice, big one? Something warm and inviting, that we could make feel like home.”

He watched her face for some reaction to his use of inclusion of her. The desire to talk about their family - about making it a bigger one - spun across his thoughts, but he resisted mentioning it. That wasn’t a discussion he wanted to have in the dark. He wanted to be able to read her face better when they had that sort of talk. 

“A nice, big house,” Belle repeated, beaming at him. He had been thinking about where they were all to live together. “That sounds perfect.”

“Would you- would you prefer something grander?” he asked, a bit of apprehension showing in his face. “Something more what you’re accustomed to?”

‘No.” She shook her head quickly. “Big and warm sounds just right. Honestly, I’d live in a hovel, if it meant that you and Neal came along with it.”

“Luckily we can improve a few rungs up from ‘hovel.’” Though he chuckled at her remark, his hand tightened around hers. “And when you’re ready, I can buy an office for you, to set up your practice. An entire building, if you like.”

“Sweetheart, no. You don’t have to buy either one. If the time comes-”

“‘If’?”

“Well, there’s still years of schooling yet to be done, and it isn’t guaranteed that I would immediately set up a practice of my own.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” he asked, apparently troubled by the idea that she might not.

“All right, I’m rather certain that I would _eventually,_ but-”

“Then having a fine place ready and waiting to set everything up would be a good thing, would it not?”

“There’s no _use_ in a place sitting empty for years while I work toward it,” she reasoned. “And when the time does come, I’ll likely have saved the money for it, myself.”

“But you don’t have to save up for it. Not when I can buy it outright as soon as you say the word.”

“Oh, Rummond, of all the things to be hardheaded-”

Lieutenant Hargreaves cleared his throat and turned over in his bed with a noisy squawk from its springs. Belle realized she’d stopped whispering at some point, and she lowered her voice again. 

“It’s a long way off, either way,” she said, tugging Rummond’s hand over into her lap. “I haven’t even gotten through the medical college yet.”

“You will. With your colors nailed to the mast,” he said with such an unshakable confidence in her that her irritation deserted her all at once.

“And even then, it would be a few years before I could practice on my own.”

“That’s just fine. The money will still be there when you’re ready to hang out a shingle.”

“Rum, I-” She shook her head, unable to help laughing at his persistence. 

As frustrating as such a debate was, she was happy that he not only kept her desire to be a doctor in mind, but he seemed intent on her accomplishing it - wanting her to have it as much as she wanted it for herself. There weren’t many things he became so insistent about, and she wondered over _this_ being one of them.

“I swear, you are the most _stubborn…”_ she said with a smile and a sigh. “I love you.”

He gave her a grin. “I love you.”

If they’d not been in the middle of the ward, she thought she’d have pounced on him for a good, sound kiss. As it was, dark or not, that was probably not the best of ideas. She could split the difference between having a kiss and not, though. Using his hand as leverage, she pulled herself forward and up enough to brush a kiss against Rummond’s forehead.

“What was that for?” he asked, his smile turning warmer and just a little bashful.

“Everything. All of you,” she told him, leaning to nudge their heads gently together.


	120. Into A Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(Better to Face the Bullets is now a TEA winner for Best Historical AU and Best (Worst) Villain! I didn’t expect it, but thank you so, so much, everyone who nominated and voted for it. I’m going to have a promptathon in celebration in the near-ish future. When I decide exactly when, I’ll let you guys know!)_

Snow fell in a light flurry on the nearly still air when Belle and Neal arrived at the hospital on Sunday morning. The previous day had been just warming enough to begin melting the accumulated snow, turning it all to half-frozen slush as the temperature dropped again. The hospital grounds were no longer such a pretty scene to look out on.

Belle bustled the little boy inside ahead of her, handing him the basket to take in with him and watching until he’d disappeared through the doors at the end of the corridor before turning left to make a cup of tea as she usually did. When she returned to the ward, with tea and without her outdoor things, Neal sat laughing with his father over his drawings. The sound lightened her heart.

“And what are we so tickled over?” she asked as she set the cup on Rummond’s table. He looked up at her with a smile, his hand reaching for hers while she stood so near. She took it, sliding her fingers between his.

Neal grinned. “I showed Papa my picture of Mr. Maurice.”

“Oh, my.” She squeezed Rummond’s hand before slipping away, stepping over to sit with Neal between them. 

He’d shown her the little drawing the afternoon before - a large square symbolizing her father’s yellow paisley dressing gown, with stick fingers and a head sticking out, hair frightful and a cup of hot cocoa nearby. It was the way her father looked when he and Neal had the occasional late night game of draughts.

She chuckled at the drawing once again when he turned it around. “A wonderful likeness,” she deemed, giving his cheek an affectionate pat.

“I brought my pad and crayons,” Neal said. He placed the paper back on top of those in his Papa’s hands before tilting his head back to look up at him. “I want to draw stuff from here.”

“That sounds like an excellent idea.” His Papa dropped a kiss in his hair. “What will you draw first, then, hm?”

Neal looked around, considering the room. “I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”

Lieutenant Hargreaves’ family arrived - always early and often just behind Belle, now that they lived so nearby - and Rummond waited until Neal had become thoroughly distracted before bringing something more serious into the conversation. Once his son had slid down from the far side of the bunk to play with Grace, he said quietly to Belle, “Nurse Mills was on quite the tear yesterday.”

A look of concern, ready to switch to anger in an instant, rose quickly to Belle’s face. “She didn’t set in on you again, did she?”

“It did come as a surprise, but no.” Rummond looked down as Neal leaned back across the bunk to tug at his robe sleeve, showing him the rag doll that Grace’s mother had made for her. “I see, duckling. It’s lovely.”

“What did she do, then?” Belle asked when Neal turned away again to play.

“She did more terrorizing of the nurses than anything else. Set Nurse Boyd off crying over a turned apron strap, and I believe she managed to make Nurse Halloran _angry.”_

Belle made a short, thoughtful noise. “I wonder if Dr. Whale has had any sort of talk with her?”

“If he has, it certainly isn’t accomplishing any improvement.” Rummond shook his head and set the drawings that he still held over with the rest on his bedside table. “If anything, she’s treating the nurses worse.”

“I’m afraid he’s attempting to placate her and everyone who’s made complaints, all at once. He’s doing far too much bending, and someone, somewhere is going to end up the one broken because of it.” Belle looked to Rummond, frowning. “If she comes after you again, tell me right away. Or tell Dr. Hopper, if I’m not about. As soon as possible. Don’t try to ignore it. Ignoring her is what’s gotten things this far.”

“I’ll report it one way or the other,” he agreed.

“I mean it,” she said, her eyes shifting slightly as she looked into his to make certain he’d heard her. “Rum, I don’t want you to be the one she brings to harm. I don’t want her to harm _anyone,_ but…”

Rummond nodded, reaching out enough to stroke the back of his fingers against the back of her own where her hand rested on the blanket. “I will. You have my word.”

Neal hopped over to the bedside again, this time next to Belle. “Can- m- _may_ I have my pad and crayons? I decided what to draw.”

“They’re tucked into the side of the picnic basket, on the side near the lid. You can fetch them,” she told him. 

He went around the end of the bed to sort his things from the basket and, holding them to his chest, he climbed up between his Papa and Belle again. Neal carefully poured the crayons into his hand and lined them up on the blanket beside his drawing pad so that he could see them. He began by drawing Grace’s tan, orange flowered dress, making up for the lack of all colors in the small box of crayons by filling a small rectangle in lightly with the brown.

Rummond petted his son’s hair, coaxing talk about school from him and watching as Neal drew Mrs. Hargreaves and her husband, as well. Neal repeated how Mrs. Lapointe said that he was best in the class at spelling, and told his father that he was still doing well in arithmetic. He confided, however, that he still had a bit of trouble with their new lessons on subtracting one number from two numbers when there was a nine involved on the bottom row. Rummond asked for a sheet of drawing paper, and he began writing out columns of just such problems, determined to help his son figure them out before the next day’s test.

The snow fell more heavily as the day wore on, clinging to the window panes by midmorning, promising a thick blanket by nightfall. Belle was thankful that the furnace was now in good repair. Such weather would have been a misery if the heat went out, and a danger besides. She found herself with the urge to stick her legs beneath Rummond’s covers, and while she was certain that Rummond wouldn’t mind, it was a desire better tamped down with the rest of her _‘someday I won’t have to second guess every touch’_ thoughts.

After lunch, Hargreaves nudged his daughter into going over with Neal. With a short, silent exchange, Rummond understood that the Lieutenant and his wife needed a few moments to speak without little ears listening too closely. He took the deck of cards from his drawer and gave his son’s knee a gentle bump.

“Gin rummy?” he asked, receiving enthusiastic nods from both children. 

Belle smiled, patting the blanket next to her to invite Grace to sit. “Be on my team?”

“Here, let’s see if you and I together can win a hand,” Rummond said as he lifted the boy over into his lap.

Grace seemed to have learned the basics, and Rummond helped his son through each turn. It took three hands - the first going to Belle and the second to Grace - before Neal won with his father’s guidance.

“There you go,” Rummond said. “Go on, call ‘gin!’”

“Gin!” Neal squeaked quickly, giving a little flail of excitement. “I won?”

“You won!” Belle confirmed with a grin.

Rummond couldn’t be absolutely certain that Belle didn’t let Neal win the hand, particularly not after seeing the twinkle in her eye after his son had declared. He wouldn’t have remarked upon it even had he known, though.

Grace was summoned back to her parents with the temptation of dessert in the form of cherry jam thimble cookies. “Can Neal have some?” she asked before returning to her mother.

Neal looked up at his father, the smile on his face and the disappearance of his eyebrows into his fringe radiating hope. 

“He can,” Rummond said, nodding his permission, and Neal rolled to the edge of the bed before sliding off.

Belle began gathering the cards, turning them the proper way around. “If Neal is going to stay for a while…” she whispered, glancing over.

“Hm?” Rummond looked to Neal, standing at the Lieutenant’s bedside. 

Mrs. Hargreaves put a cookie in Neal’s hand, and he poked the entire thing into his mouth. Grace shook her head. “Eat it in bites,” she said. “You don’t want to get choked!”

Neal took her warning quite seriously, eating the next offered cookie in a slightly slower fashion. 

When it seemed that Neal _was_ preoccupied with the sweets as well as the company, Belle leaned toward Rummond. She spoke softly. “You remember how I’ve mentioned Christopher - Mrs. Potts’ grandson?”

“I do,” Rummond said as he took the cards from her and dropped them easily back into the tattered box.

“He and Neal got into a bit of a scrape on Friday afternoon. Chip told him-”

Neal trotted back over before she could finish her sentence, much less all she’d meant to say. He brought with him a double handful of thimble cookies sent by Mrs. Hargreaves.

“They have too many,” Neal said around part of a bite still in his mouth. “Grace’s mum said there’s more if you want them.”

Belle took a napkin from their lightened basket and held it out for Neal to drop the cookies into. He took one back, nibbling at it, and it became clear that he intended on staying near his father. Exchanging a grin with Rummond over the interruption, she sat back again.

It took a little while for Neal to eat his fill. He slowed, though, and then stopped halfway through a cookie, giving it a mournful look before handing it to his Papa. “I’m too full for it.”

“Those were some delicious cookies, weren’t they?” Rummond said, hinting to his son.

“They were _so good!”_ Neal agreed. “So good I ate too many.”

Rummond looked over Neal’s head to the Lieutenant’s wife. “Thank you, Mrs. Hargreaves. The thimble cookies were delicious,” he complimented a bit more pointedly, looking down at his son and then back to her.

“Oh!” Neal said, catching on. He turned to look back to the source of the cookies he’d devoured, repeating, “Thank you, Mrs. Hargreaves! The thimble cookies were de-licious!”

“You’re most welcome, Neal,” she said with a soft laugh. “I’m glad you enjoyed them so.”

“Now, why don’t you go and wash the sticky off your hands?” Rummond suggested. 

“And then get tea with Nurse Lucas?” Neal asked, turning his smile from his father to Belle.

Belle would have sworn that it was a knowing smile the boy gave her. He’d caught on, she was almost sure of it. One day it wouldn’t work, sending Neal off after tea as a distraction.

“What a clever thought,” she said, catching his chin between her thumb and forefinger to give his head a teasing waggle. “Now that you mention it, I believe your Papa’s tea cup _has_ gone cold. And it might be a good idea to give your face a wash, as well.”

“Wash hands and wash face and find Nurse Lucas for tea.” Neal gave a big nod before he hurried off.

There was no one in the washroom when he went over. He was glad of it - waiting for someone to come out made him nervous. Neal went right in, though, and stood on his tiptoes at the sink to soap his hands. He rinsed the bubbles off and rubbed his wet hands over his mouth and chin before drying with a cloth from the shelf.

Nurse Lucas was over on the side of the ward opposite from his Papa and Belle. She was talking to Mr. Jezek and Nurse Jezek, so he stood at the end of the bed to wait. 

“Taking Nurse Lucas off for parts unknown again, eh?” Mrs. Jezek asked.

He knew that Mr. Jezek had another word in front of his name, the way his Papa was Captain, but he couldn’t manage it just yet and he’d been given permission to call him by ‘mister’ until he could. Neal always had to look closely at Mr. Jezek’s face to tell whether he was teasing. It was difficult to tell the difference, sometimes.

“Just for tea again,” Neal said once he’d decided that Mr. Jezek _was_ teasing.

“All right, I believe I have time to fetch a cuppa,” Nurse Lucas said, smiling down at him.

Her smile was bright and almost curled up at the corners. He didn’t know anyone else who had a smile like that - not the shape or the color, either. Neal decided he’d draw her when they got back with his Papa’s tea. 

Nurse Lucas offered her hand and he took it. She chatted with him on the way down to the kitchen, talking about school, and then about Mrs. Potts, and then about Belle and his Papa. 

“Have you happened to see a new ring anywhere around Belle or your father?” she asked.

He thought about it. “I don’t think I have. Do you need one?”

“Oh, no, I have one of my own.” She laughed a little bit. “You just let me know when you see a new ring belonging to either of them, all right?”

“Okay…” Neal said. He was too curious about what she meant, though. “Why a ring?”

“Well, when you see a pretty ring of any sort, it _usually_ means something very good is about to happen,” Nurse Lucas told him, and she gave him a wink. She opened the kitchen door and let him go in ahead of her. 

“Hi, Miss Rampion!” Neal chirped as Nurse Lucas picked him up to sit him on the counter while she made tea.

“Hello, there! My little Sunday visitor,” the cook greeted him cheerfully. She wiped her hands on her apron and went right to the icebox. “I have something for you.”

Miss Rampion took out a bottle and popped open the hinge on the lid as she took a short glass down from the cupboard across the corner from him. She poured a bit into the bottom and held it out to him.

“Have you ever had root beer?” she asked, and he shook his head. “One of the boys here from the states is the son of some big wig or other, and he made a special request. Got a whole box of it shipped. I thought you might like to give it a try.”

Neal took a sip. As soon as he’d swallowed, he wrinkled his face and then stretched it out, trying to get rid of the tickle in his nose and throat. He looked into the glass, listening to the drink fizzle.

“Not to your taste, little man?” Miss Rampion asked with a grin. 

He licked his lips and took another, smaller sip. It didn’t tickle so much this time. “I like it,” he said.

“Here, then. You take the bottle. All I ask is a kiss.” She turned her face, laying a fingertip on her cheek and looking at him from the corner of her eye.

Neal gave her a darting little peck and sat back again.

Miss Rampion clucked her tongue and shook her head. “Ooh! Sweetest one yet!” she said. She clamped the lid back onto the top of the bottle and handed it to him. 

He giggled, holding onto the bottle while Nurse Lucas added honey to his Papa’s tea. Miss Rampion reminded him of Mrs. Potts. Their kitchens smelled a little bit alike, and Miss Rampion was just as nice to him when he saw her.

“I’ll see you next week, baby doll,” she told him as Nurse Lucas went to return the kettle to its place.

Nurse Lucas lifted him down from the counter and ushered him ahead of her, carrying the cup, herself. She usually gave it to him before they went back inside, but it was a long way from the kitchen to the ward, and he didn’t want to slosh the tea all over.

They turned the corner to head straight down to the ward. Neal skipped ahead of her, holding the neck of the bottle Miss Rampion gave him tightly in his hand as he hopped from one large square of tile to the next. There was a set of hurried footsteps that weren’t Nurse Lucas’ coming up behind them.

“Well, _pardon me,”_ she said. “There’s plenty of hallway, no need to push.”

A familiar voice grated in Neal’s ears in a way that made him want to cry all of a sudden, and he didn’t understand it right away.

“Come here, boy.”

He pulled away as he felt a hand on his arm at the very same time that Nurse Lucas yelled out, _“No!”_

Neal whirled around and saw her being shoved to the floor. The cup of tea slung out of her hand and there was a breaking noise as it hit the tile. Nurse Lucas scrambled up, one of her shoes slipping in the tea on the floor as she tried to get her footing. Neal could see anger in her face. Nurse Lucas’ red lips pulled back to bare her teeth as she grabbed at the back of the man’s coat.

“Don’t you touch him!” she growled.

The man turned, though, and the back of his hand hit Nurse Lucas’ face with a sound that made Neal feel as though he would be sick. She hit the wall before she fell to the floor again, and she didn’t get back up as quickly.

Neal felt frozen. He wanted to call for for his Papa, but he couldn’t make a sound. All he could do was tell his feet to _go._ He dropped the bottle of root beer and ran as fast as he could. He heard heavy footsteps running up behind him, and he knew he wouldn’t make it to the doors. His Papa and Belle were too far away.

He reached for the first door handle he got to, turning and pulling at it hard, but it wouldn’t _move,_ and he started to cry. An arm looped around him, grabbing him too tightly, making it hard to breathe as it yanked him off his feet and away.


	121. A Fool's Lips

Rummond popped the half a cookie that his son had given him into his mouth. “You were saying about a scrape? What was it over?”

“Apparently Neal expressed how he looks forward to you leaving the hospital,” Belle said, picking up the tale earlier cut short. “Chip made some manner of remark about how people in this sort of hospital don’t get out. Neal told him that he was wrong, Chip got a bit smart, and Neal’s temper found a limit. There was a bit of a scuffle.”

He cringed. It must have been some great trespass for Neal’s patience to run out. “What happened?”

“Well, Chip had Neal pinned before Mrs. Potts could make it across the lawn to separate them, and…” Belle’s lips twitched. “Neal bit him.”

 _“Bit_ him?” Rummond blinked.

She did her very best to school away the smile from her face. “Bit him.” 

“Did Neal hurt the boy?”

“Oh, it only shocked him. There wasn’t even a mark left. According to Mrs. Potts, Chip behaved for a few hours as if Neal had chewed the arm off. Chip isn’t accustomed to a playmate who defends himself.”

“Is this-” He shook his head. “Do you think it might be because-”

“Children get into scuffles. It happens.” She reached for his hand in an effort to reassure him. “I wouldn’t worry. Mrs. Potts told me that Neal seemed equally as shocked. He sat in the kitchen with her for the rest of the afternoon and a bit later apologized without being asked.”

“He apologized.” Rummond smiled. Of course Neal had apologized. 

“I had a talk with him at bedtime, and I told him that perhaps biting wasn’t the best course of action, but also that I understood his need to defend himself. I _didn’t_ tell him that perhaps the bite did Chip good. Chip hasn’t said a cross word to him since.”

Belle startled at a yell so loud that it came right through the closed doors of the ward, and the sound of something shattering quickly followed. She and Rummond scarcely had time to exchange a look before Ruby burst in. 

Ruby held a hand against the side of her face, her lower lip and chin smeared with blood, and Belle was up before her friend could speak. She pulled a handkerchief from her apron pocket and brought it up to Ruby’s lip.

“Neal,” Ruby gasped, pulling the handkerchief away. “Someone’s taken him! I couldn’t stop it!”

A look of horror crossed Belle’s face. _“Graham!”_ she screamed back through the ward, though she didn’t wait for anyone. 

“I’m so sorry!” Ruby said from behind her as she tore down the corridor. “I couldn’t stop him!”

Belle ran past broken ceramic and shattered glass, the smell of tea and something spicy-sweet flooding the air. Her chest hurt, fear stabbing through her with every thump of her heart.

She couldn’t lose Neal. _Rummond_ couldn’t lose Neal. Not again.

Skidding into the foyer, she found the doors standing open and wind whipping through. They hadn’t yet gotten far, and Belle recognized them from no more than the back of their heads. It was Rummond’s ex-wife and Jones. Nurse Lind was already outside ahead of her, following them off the front steps. 

She could hear Neal crying before she’d gotten to the door. _“I don’t want to go!”_

“Pardon me!” Mal snapped. “What precisely do you think you’re doing?”

“Taking my son back,” Milah said as though it should be obvious.

Belle practically threw herself down the steps in her mad desperation to get to them. “No, you are not!”

Jones carried a fiercely struggling Neal, holding the boy pinned to himself with one arm, and Milah strutted two steps ahead of him. A hired taxicab waited for them in the hospital drive, and Belle found new terror that they might reach it before she could reach _them._

Belle wanted so badly to simply pluck Neal from the lout’s hold, but she was far too aware that she was no match for him - and particularly not as she’d just learned he had no compunctions about striking a woman. If he knocked her out, they could take right off. Her best bet was in delaying them. 

“Nurse Lind, hurry and find Mr. Muis,” she said without taking her eyes off of them, and she heard the grinding of the driveway gravel beneath the desk nurse’s shoes.

To her shock, they stopped, turning to stare at her. As soon as Neal saw her, his fighting redoubled. He threw his head back, colliding with Jones’ shoulder, and Jones reached up with his free hand to grab the little boy’s head and hold it still. Neal twisted, catching the side of Jones’ hand with his teeth. 

“You little bastard!” Jones yelled, giving Neal a shake.

Belle surged further forward, as near as she dared. “Get your hands off of him!” 

“Belle!” Neal screamed, reaching out for her.

Her hands tightened into fists with the effort of holding herself back. “It’s all right, Neal, you aren’t going anywhere.”

Milah laughed. She had the nerve to _laugh._ “The hell he isn’t.”

“You think there’s any way Rummond will allow you to have that child back after the way you’ve treated him?”

It occurred to Belle belatedly that she might have stepped over some boundary or other. She’d seen how Neal suffered the repercussions of his time with his mother and this man, though, and she was not about to play the part of some silent nanny.

Jones snorted, trying to adjust for a tighter hold on Neal. “I don’t think he has a choice, pet.”

“He’ll do what I tell him to do,” Milah said with a cool smile.

The relief that Belle felt when she heard Graham running down the steps behind her made her stomach lurch.

“Killian, go on with him,” the woman demanded, waving a hand at him.

“No!” Belle snapped, and Neal wailed again, _“I don’t want to go back!”_

Jones turned to walk away and Belle followed, but he only made it a few steps before Graham overtook them. Graham grabbed Jones’ arm, pulling him back and wedging an arm in to wrap around Neal’s chest while shoving Jones in the opposite direction as he took the boy away. Belle took him immediately from Graham’s arms and Neal wrapped himself around her, clinging for dear life.

With a short-tempered, ridiculing sound, Milah reached to take Neal. Belle turned away from her, holding just as tightly to him as he did to her. The other woman was a head taller, and Jones was at least two, and Belle paid no mind to it. They were _not_ taking Neal, no matter what manner of strongarming or bullying they meant to try. She had him in her arms now, and she’d throw herself to the driveway kicking and screaming if need be.

“Neal!” Rummond called out frantically from the landing at the top of the hospital steps.

The sound of his voice made tears spring to Belle’s eyes. She jabbed an elbow at Milah’s arm as the woman tried to get hold of Neal’s clothing.

Rummond’s heart thundered painfully against his breastbone at the thought of his son being taken from him again. He couldn’t allow Neal to go back to whatever sort of life it was that Milah and Jones had. He wouldn’t.

“You’re not taking him!” he yelled, seeing precisely the pair he’d expected.

He limped his way awkwardly down the steps, and he’d have given anything to be able to run to his son at that moment. He stumbled as he reached the gravel, the tip of his cane sinking into the rough pebbles. 

“I have him,” Belle said, but she was drowned out by Rummond’s ex-wife.

“The hell I’m not,” Milah said. “He is _mine,_ and he’s going home with us!”

“Don’t make me go! Papa! _Please_ don’t make me go!” Neal began to sob, holding onto Belle’s neck so tightly that his arms threatened to cut off her air. 

“You aren’t going anywhere with them,” Rummond assured his son. He turned a glare on Milah. “He ceased to be yours when you dropped him here and ran. You’ve no right of any sort to him.”

Milah reached for Neal again and he shrieked. “What is _wrong_ with you?” she hissed at him, then over at Rummond. “What’ve you done to him?”

 _“I_ haven’t done anything to him,” Rummond bit back.

Neal cried, muffled with his face against Belle’s shoulder. “Papa…”

Rummond stepped over, placing himself between Milah and Belle so that he could have this discussion without everyone sniping into his son’s ear. “You aren’t going anywhere, duckling.”

“Oh, that ridiculous pet name,” Milah said with a roll of her eyes. _“That’s_ what’s been wrong with him the full time. You’ve coddled him. Made him soft. It’s why I couldn’t bring him around to Killian. There’s nothing for that boy to identify with in a real man.”

“Aye, I suppose it couldn’t possibly have been that you treated him like an animal, you and your beau.” Rummond snarled, glaring between the two of them.

“My _husband,”_ she corrected with some smugness.

His lip curled in distaste. “Congratulations. Now, leave.”

Milah looked past him to Neal, seeing the way he clung to Belle. Renewed rage twisted her features. “So you do have your trollop looking after him?” She looked to Rummond again and laughed - a cold and brittle sound. “Killian told me you had one. I didn’t believe him. You? But then I got a little something in the post. What is there wrong with her that she’d settle for a stunted thing like you?”

“You’re here out of spite,” he said as he realized it.

“After what you did to me-”

“What _I_ did to _you?”_ Rummond’s eyes narrowed in outrage.

Jones scowled around at them and back to Milah, muttering, “I thought this was about the money?”

 _“Shut up,”_ she said, giving him a sharp look.

Rummond barked a mirthless laugh. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Come here, Neal. _Now!”_ Milah reached a insistent hand toward him, but he held ever more desperately to Belle. When her demand didn’t bring him around, she went on to attempt to cajole the frightened boy. “I always meant to come back for you,” 

“You’re lying,” Rummond grit through his teeth.

Belle scoffed at her, rubbing Neal’s back in an attempt to comfort him. “I don’t believe he wants to go with you.”

“It doesn’t matter what he wants, you stupid little chit.” Milah gave Belle what she was certain was meant to be a withering look, but it only further reinforced Belle’s determination that she would never let this woman get her hands on Neal.

“You control her, show her how to mind her own business, or I’ll teach her and the sprog both a lesson they won’t soon forget,” Jones threatened, and _he_ reached for Neal, trying to push Rummond aside. He managed to reach far enough to wrap a hand around Neal’s arm, giving it a yank.

 _“No!”_ Neal screamed.

Rummond planted a hand in the middle Jones’ chest, giving him a solid shove away. “You’ll keep your bloody hands off both of them, you wretch.”

Jones slapped at his front where he’d been touched, as though he’d been soiled by it. “You’ll surrender him now or we’ll-”

“You’ll _what?”_ Rummond challenged.

“We can find him,” Jones said with a mocking grin. “We’ve known where he is. Your father told us months back you had the brat living with your _whore.”_

Rummond switched his cane to his left hand, and Belle saw his right ball into a fist at his side. Before she could take a breath to call out to him, he’d already drawn back and hit Jones square in the jaw - not only socking him, but knocking him clean off his feet. The cracking punch sent the larger man sprawling.

Jones hit the driveway hard, gravel crunching beneath him. He looked around himself, blinking in shock at the suddenness of being on his back. He reached up to touch his mouth in disbelief, his fingertips coming away slick with blood. Rummond stood over him, shifting his weight to his good leg and lifting his cane from the drive. He jabbed it forward to press the tip into the underside of Jones’ jaw, forcing his head back. 

Graham started to step in, but Belle shook her head. He held back, tense and ready to stop things if they went too far.

“Rummond,” Belle said, stepping closer to him. “We have Neal. Let’s go.”

“Don’t hurt him!” Milah squawked. Her anger didn’t cool, though she looked as though she might be near a tantrum. “Don’t you dare hurt him!”

“How strange. You had no such compunctions when it came to either of you causing harm to my son.” Rummond turned a black look, teeth bared, up to Milah and back down to Jones. He pressed his cane tip harder against the man’s throat.

“Rummond!” Belle took an arm from around Neal to place her hand at Rummond’s back. “Rum, don’t. He isn’t worth it.”

 _“Leave,”_ Rummond said with a quiet menace that she had never heard from him. He looked from Jones to his ex-wife again. “Neal stays with me. He is _my_ son. The law is on my side of it. You have no rights to him and you know it. If you ever come ’round again - if my son so much as breathes a word that I think means he’s seen you slithering about - I will find you and I _will_ make you pay harm for harm every moment of suffering that he felt at your hands.”

He moved his cane away from Jones’ throat and let Belle draw him back a step. “Do you understand?”

Jones bared blood-smeared teeth, but he nodded. Rummond allowed him to get to his feet. It took Jones a few moments to take his eyes off Rummond and search for his hat. 

“I’ve had a number of long talks with my son,” Rummond said. “And I know _everything.”_

A shamed expression flickered across Milah’s face, but it didn’t settle.

“More trouble than he’s worth, anyway,” Jones grumbled.

Rummond stepped toward him again, and Jones took an equal step back, apparently catching on that his mouth may have overloaded his arse. 

“Look after that glass jaw,” Rummond jeered as Jones went back to Milah’s side. 

“It doesn’t matter how much money you’ve gotten yourself, Rummond,” she sneered. “You’ll always be a coward.”

Belle cut in before he could speak. “And yet you’re the one sneaking in to steal a child from his father for the _second_ time. I wouldn’t accuse anyone else of cowardice, were I you.”

Nurse Lind came hurrying back out, Mr. Muis on her heels. “I’ve telephoned the police,” the desk nurse said, glowering at the would-be abductors. “They’ll be here any moment.”

Milah and Jones both looked as though they hadn’t expected the authorities to be rung up. Without much more than sour and hateful glares, they dashed back to their hired taxicab.

It was only when they’d disappeared from the hospital drive completely that Belle let go of Neal.

“Rummond,” she said, and he dropped his cane to the driveway so that he could reach out for his son with both arms.

“Here, go to your Papa, darling,” she whispered to Neal. He let go just long enough to switch the person he clung to. 

Neal buried his face in his Papa’s shoulder and whimpered, falling into him. Rummond petted his son’s hair, shushing him softly. “You’re all right,” he murmured near Neal’s ear. “They’ve gone and you’re all right. You’re not going anywhere.”

“We’re all right now,” Belle said, looking to Mal, Graham, and Mr. Muis.

Graham hesitated while the other two turned to go back. At Belle’s nod - a reassurance that it was indeed all right - he went, though he stopped just inside the foyer to keep an eye on them.

She reached out to rub Neal’s back. He turned his face, wet and blotched with red, to her and she took a step toward him to touch his cheek. Snow gathered on his shoulders as well as his father’s. It was likely only adrenaline that kept them all from freezing. She was just about to remark on how they should go back inside because it wouldn’t do for any of them to get a chill, when she saw Rummond’s hand.

“Rum,” Belle said softly as she reached for his hand, drawing his attention to it without saying something that might further upset Neal.

He looked down, surprised to see the middle two knuckles on his left hand cut. Blood had dripped between his fingers. 

“We need to get that cleaned up,” she told him. She dipped down to retrieve his cane from the ground, holding it out for him to take.

Rummond shifted Neal a bit so that he could accept his cane and carry his son, as well. Neal tightened his hold. “We’re only going back inside,” he soothed. “You can hold on as long as you like.”

The police arrived soon after they were back on the ward. Belle hadn’t even time to tend Rummond’s hand before Dr. Whale walked in with a pair of constables who had stern faces and helmets under their arms.

They told the police constables all that they knew, connecting their accounts with the moment Rummond made it outside. Between them, they gave the constables every remark made during the short conversation they’d held out in the cold.

“Do you wish to press charges?” one of the constables asked, his pencil hovering above the small notebook he’d been writing the content of the interview in.

“I most assuredly do,” Rummond confirmed. He petted Neal’s back, glad that his son had calmed for the most part.

“We’ll do our best to find them,” the second constable said. “No guarantees, of course.”

“I’d try Drogheda first.” He wasn’t convinced they would go on the lam or some such as that. Milah almost certainly wouldn’t believe that he would send police after them.

The first constable scribbled a bit. “Well, then, if that’s all?”

“That’s all.” Rummond nodded. “You’ll want to speak with Nurse Lucas, as well, though. Can’t imagine she won’t want to press charges of her own.”

Once the constables had gone off in search of Ruby, Belle fetched the supplies she would need for Rummond’s hand. She sat with the basin of hot water settled on her lap and his hand held over it while she carefully dabbed the dried blood away and dripped mercurochrome into the small wounds. Neal still clung to his Papa and snubbed softly through the end of his tears, though he now sat in his father’s lap holding handfuls of his robe rather than maintaining a vice grip on his neck.

“It’ll bruise and be sore and stiff by morning,” Belle said as she smeared a thin layer of ointment over the cuts with her clean fingertips. “I always assumed you weren’t the fisticuffs type, for some reason.”

He shook his head a bit. “I’m not.”

“Oh?” She looked up at him, smiling, her brows raised. “Your hand says differently.” 

“Well, I _wasn’t,”_ he said quietly. He gave a soft hiss as she touched a spot that was evidently sore already. “I couldn’t let him-” 

“I know.” Belle held his gaze for a moment before she began winding a strip of gauze around his knuckles. She tucked the end in and ducked her head to press a gentle kiss to the wrapping.

“Belle… You’ll watch over him closely?” Rummond asked.

She understood what he meant. With the chance of his ex-wife and Jones lurking, she couldn’t blame him for worrying about Neal being out of his sight. 

“He’s only ever alone when he sleeps,” she reassured him. “The house staff looks after him in the afternoons. I’ll have a talk with his teacher and the headmaster about who’s allowed to fetch him from school, though, to make sure they’re aware. He’s safe.”

Rummond thought about how she had held onto Neal, shielding and protecting him, and dear God, there was no end to how much more he could love her, was there? 

“Papa?”

“Hm?”

Neal sat back just enough that he could look up and see his Papa’s face. “Is Mum coming back?” he asked so very quietly.

It made something in Rummond hurt to see the fright in his son’s eyes. He couldn’t understand how Milah could see that fear, knowing she’d created it, and not feel it ripping her heart out.

“No. She won’t be coming back. And nor will her friend. The police constables who were here? They’re going to be making sure of that,” he told Neal, his voice fierce. “Worry you not, duckling,” he said more softly. “I won’t let anyone take you, and neither will Belle.”

Neal sniffled, looking from his Papa’s bandaged knuckles and up to his face. “You promise?”

Rummond reached up, taking his son’s face gently between his hands. He pressed a kiss to Neal’s cheek before hugging the boy snug to his chest again. “I promise.”


	122. Worth Fighting For

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt - _anonymousnerdgirl said: Can there please be another therapy scene following this chapter? I really need Archie to guide them through the trauma of the almost kidnapping and lead them into a place pride and security over how Belle, Neal, and Rum worked together to stop the Jones's. Neal knows without a doubt Rummond and Belle would never abandon him and Rum knows he can stand up for his loved ones. Big break throughs all around._

After his own appointment, Rummond walked back up the corridor to the foyer. The driver would arrive soon with Neal, and he wanted to be there to meet him. He’d been waiting by the front doors for only a few minutes when he heard familiar footsteps. A warm hand placed itself in the middle of his back, and Belle stepped up next to him.

“Are you out of your session early or am I late?” she asked. 

He looked down at her, smiling. “You’re a wee bit late.”

Belle looked at her watch. “I may need you to give this thing a looking over,” she said, giving the crystal front of it a tap as though it might help. “Seems it’s gotten slow.”

“That’s easily remedied.”

“Oh, you could fiddle with a watch flattened on a train track and have it keeping perfect time in a day.”

Belle’s exaggerated praise made his ears warm. He flexed his fingers around the handle of his cane, his bandaged knuckles indeed as sore as she had warned. 

Rummond huffed a short laugh, “I wouldn’t go quite that far.”

Her father’s tourer pulled up with a rumble and she went outside. Neal hopped out before Horatio could come around to open his door, taking Belle’s hand when she offered it. 

“Hi, Papa!” he said as they stepped back into the hospital foyer, his usual cheer a bit dampened. He’d brought along Philippe. One of the toy’s arms remained clutched in his hand as he let go of Belle and reached up for his father. 

“Morning, duckling.” Rummond picked up his son, hugging the boy tightly. “Let’s go and see Dr. Hopper, hm?”

He carried Neal on the walk back down to the doctor’s office. His son held on with one arm around his neck, the bear thumping softly against the back of his shoulder with each step. The door was open when they rounded the corner, and Dr. Hopper waited for them.

“Good morning, Neal,” the doctor greeted with a smile. “I see you brought your friend along again.”

“We needed a bit of moral support,” Belle said when the little boy leaned his head against his father’s neck.

Dr. Hopper waited for the three of them to get seated. He watched as Nurse French ushered Captain Gold over to sit first before she took a place next to him, leaving just enough room between them for Neal. It took the Captain a moment to coax his son into sitting there rather than clinging to his neck.

“How are you feeling this morning, Neal?” the doctor asked, taking a seat in one of the chairs between the sofa and his desk as he always did during these sessions with the three of them.

“Okay,” was all that the boy volunteered.

“I heard that something happened yesterday,” Dr. Hopper continued. “Would you like to talk about it?”

Neal shrugged and he tugged Fleep out from between himself and his father. He held the little stuffed bear close as Belle and Rummond filled Dr. Hopper in about what had happened on Sunday afternoon. He leaned against his father’s side and Belle petted his hair while they talked. 

Belle had called Ariel in to work her night shift and she’d gone home with Neal when Horatio came around later in the evening to collect him. The day had been too much to send him home alone after, and Rummond had agreed on that.

Neal had seemed quiet and tired, picking at his lunch and dinner in a way he hadn’t in months. She’d put him to bed a little early. He had seemed to go down all right, but she’d taken up a station in the rocking chair, anyway. She didn’t want him to be alone if he woke. Only a couple of hours later, something had awakened her, and she found Neal wound up tight in his covers in the midst of a nightmare, crying and calling for his Papa. After bringing him over into her lap to rock and calm him, he’d asked if he could sleep in her room. She’d slept marginally better in her own bed than she would have in the rocking chair, but the entire situation had left her shaken and not terribly prone to a good night’s sleep.

Belle gave Dr. Hopper a slightly abridged version of the events of their night.

“He always returns to his own bed when he feels secure again?” the doctor asked. “He has in the past?”

“He does. It’s usually only a night, perhaps a couple,” she said, giving Neal a smile when he looked up at her. “And it’s no bother.”

The doctor nodded. “I don’t believe it hurts for him to seek that reassurance, then. Particularly after a day such as he had.”

Belle didn’t need the confirmation, really, but it was nice to have. 

“Neal?” Dr. Hopper said, and he waited until the boy looked at him to go on. “Would it be all right if we talked about your bad dream?”

Neal squirmed until he had his feet tucked under him. “It would be okay.” 

“Can you tell me what it was about?” the doctor asked. 

“Mum and her friend again,” Neal mumbled. He turned his attention to Fleep, running a fingertip across the bear’s embroidered nose. “They took me back to their house. Papa was outside. I could see him, but he couldn’t hear me.”

“That sounds like a frightening dream.”

“It was scary. Bell woke me up, though. She was there.”

Dr. Hopper smiled again and his eyes squinted with it. “I’m glad she was there for you.”

“Me, too.” Neal reached over, patting Belle’s hand. He went back to poking Fleep’s nose. “Belle always helps when I have a bad dream.”

“How do you feel about that dream now?” Dr. Hopper nudged gently.

Neal sighed, tilting his head as he thought. “It was just a dream. But Mum and her friend really were here,” he said, his expression crumbling a bit. “They were more scary than my dream.”

“Because they were actually here?”

“And ’cause I couldn’t wake up from it. I thought they were going to take me back.”

“What happened, though?” the doctor asked. “They didn’t take you.”

Neal’s face brightened a little. “Papa and Belle were there. They came outside to get me. They wouldn’t let me go.”

“Why do you think that is? Why do you think they wouldn’t let your mother and her friend take you?”

“They didn’t want Mum to take me. They love me,” Neal said right away. He looked over to Belle, then up at his Papa.

“Of course we love you,” Belle said, slipping her arm around the boy’s small shoulders.

“I love you more than anything in the world,” Rummond told him. He shifted to turn toward Neal, touching his cheek before leaning to press a kiss to the top of his hair.

Dr. Hopper waited, allowing Neal to bask in the declarations of love for a few moments. “What does that tell you, Neal?” he asked. “What does knowing that your father and Belle love you mean to you?”

Neal smiled down at Fleep, practically glowing. “They won’t leave me the way Mum did. And they won’t hurt me, either. They make me safe.”

“From what your father and Belle told me about yesterday, it seems that you had a hand in stopping your mother and her friend, as well.”

“A hand?” Neal asked, frowning in confusion.

“I mean that you helped,” the doctor clarified.

Neal looked to his Papa. “Did I help?” 

“You did. You fought, just as your Papa and I did. I’m proud of you,” Belle said, looking from Neal to Rummond. “I’m proud of you, too.”

“I’m proud of you, too, Papa,” Neal chimed in with Belle’s words.

Rummond grabbed Neal and lifted him onto his lap, giving his son a sound kiss on the cheek and making the boy hiccup a laugh. “I hope you know I’m proud of you. Always have been.”

When his laughter had calmed, Neal asked thoughtfully, “It was good that I fought Mum’s friend?”

“It was. Very good,” Rummond said.

“But not good that I fought with Chip…?”

“You got into a fight with someone?” Dr. Hopper asked when there was a hesitation.

“It was with Christopher, Mrs. Potts’ grandson. They got into a bit of a scuffle the other day,” Belle explained.

“Could you tell me about that?” the doctor asked Neal.

“He said things that weren’t nice,” Neal replied, his manner more confident. “Things about Papa.”

“What was it that Chip said?”

“He said Papa would never get out of the hospital because people don’t get out of this kind of hospital.” Neal pulled a face in annoyance. “He said I better get used to seeing Papa on Sundays because that’s all I would ever get to see him. I didn’t want him saying that.”

“That your Papa wouldn’t get out?”

Neal nodded. “Because he will.”

“Yes, he will,” Dr. Hopper confirmed, and he could see relief develop even through the stubborn belief already in the little boy’s face. “He’ll be out before you know it.”

“Good,” Neal said.

“What happened during the fight?” the doctor encouraged.

Neal replied very matter-of-factly. “I bit him. On the arm.”

It took Dr. Hopper a couple of seconds to be certain he’d heard right. Neal didn’t seem like the sort of child to become that physical. “Why did you bite him?”

“Chip is bigger and I couldn’t move. That was all I could do,” Neal reasoned. He looked to Belle. “Do I have to apologize to Mum’s friend like I did Chip?”

 _“No,”_ Belle said quickly. She looked from Neal to his father, realizing she’d answered a question meant to be answered by a parent. Rummond was obviously trying to hold back a grin, though.

“No,” he agreed. “For heaven’s sake, no. You don’t have to apologize to that man for anything.”

Neal gave a firm nod, clearly satisfied with the answer he’d been given. “Papa hit Mum’s friend,” he said to Dr. Hopper, his tone more cheerful than it had sounded since the afternoon before. “Hard.”

Belle snickered at the obvious approval from Neal, not quite managing to smother it.

The doctor looked to Rummond. “Why did you hit- what was his name?” he asked, the question geared to obtain Rummond’s answer for himself and for Neal at the same time.

Rummond considered supplying Dr. Hopper with Jones’ name, but he decided that he would rather enjoy the feeling of depriving the bastard of a name in the conversation. “I had to,” he said. “He was threatening Neal and Belle, and I couldn’t allow that to stand.”

“Ah,” Dr. Hopper said, and Rummond could tell simply by the expectant look on the doctor’s face that there was some pointed observation coming.”You had to fight for them?”

“There was no other option. Not for me.”

“Why is that?”

“I had to protect them, and I _could._ I could protect my-” Rummond looked to Belle before saying more softly, “I could protect my family.”

The smile that she gave him in return for that one, simple word made his heart feel as though it could burst.

Dr. Hopper nodded, touching the bridge of his eyeglasses to push them up. He indulged in a pleased smile of his own.

“Nurse French, would you like to share your thoughts about what happened on Sunday?” he asked at length.

Belle’s hand lifted from her lap, waving in a small, dismissive gesture. “Oh, no, this is meant for Neal and Rummond.”

“For you, as well. You’re involved in Neal’s care - involved in- in the lives of Neal and Captain Gold, as well. Quite deeply, in fact. These sessions are meant for everything revolving around that, which does include you,” Dr. Hopper encouraged. “If you would like to participate, of course.”

Belle sighed a bit, giving in. “I hope they’re caught, both of them,” she said. “I hope that neither Neal nor Rummond ever have to see them again.”

“And you?”

“Well, I’d prefer not having to see them again, either, in all honesty.”

“You were upset over what happened.”

 _“Of course_ I was upset. They were trying to-” She felt her nerves going on edge merely at the memory of the fear, and she took a breath. “After all that happened to Neal while he was with them, they don’t deserve a single moment with him, much less to be allowed to spirit him away from people who _actually_ care about him.”

“You put yourself in some amount of danger to stop them,” Dr. Hopper observed.

“No more than Ruby was in when she tried to stop them. And less than Neal would be in, if they’d succeeded.” Belle caught her lower lip between her teeth, letting it go again to add, “There was no way I could have simply stood by and let them take him.”

Belle found herself a bit surprised at the streak of possessiveness that ran through her. Neal and Rummond felt like _hers,_ and the idea of either of them being harmed set off a bit of a mad feeling inside her.

“You did a good thing, protecting Neal,” the doctor told her.

“Aye,” Rummond said. He reached over, his hand curling over her forearm, warm and comforting. “If not for you, they might have-” He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

“I don’t need thanks.” She shook her head, but her hand moved automatically to rest over his. “I… I feel as though I protected Neal as much for myself as for you or him. I couldn’t allow them to take him away from _me,_ either,” she finished quietly.

Rummond smiled, broad and bright, and she knew she’d struck a chord somehow. 

“I believe we can end this for today,” the doctor said after giving them a few moments. He looked down at Neal. “Unless there might be anything else you can think of to talk over?”

Neal shook his head. “I’m all talked over for today.”

“Well, all right, then. I’ll see you another time?”

“Another time,” Neal agreed. He slid down from his father’s lap and held a hand out to Dr. Hopper. The doctor took it, giving it a small shake as Rummond and Belle exchanged an amused look.

“Thank you,” Rummond said, taking his cane when Belle offered it. “I realize this is a bit above the call.”

“Nonsense. I don’t mind a bit.” Dr. Hopper rose with them as they stood. “I’m happy to help in any way I can. I hope that having him discuss these things now will keep them from becoming overwhelming for him as he gets older.”

“So do I.” Rummond looked down at his son, resting a hand on Neal’s head. 

Neal wrapped an arm around the stuffed bear that had once been Belle’s, holding it to him. He walked in front of his Papa as they began to head out of the office. When they neared the door, though, he spied something familiar.

“You put it in a frame!” he squeaked.

Between the door and the painting of a mountain scene, there now hung a nice, dark wooden picture frame that looked as if its corners had been snipped off. Neal’s cricket drawing had been placed inside. He looked up at it in awe. The doctor had put it up on the wall for everyone to see.

“I did.” Dr. Hopper crossed his arms, grinning down at Neal. “It’s just the thing to add to my collection. Don’t you think?”

“I think it’s just right,” Neal said, taking a minute to look at it before he went on to turn the door handle. When they stepped into the hallway, he held Fleep up to Belle. “Here.”

She took the bear, not quite certain why it was being offered - until he reached to take his father’s free left hand. He placed his other hand in hers, and they made their way down the corridor with Neal suspended happily between Belle and his Papa.


	123. Rage

Belle placed Fleep on the seat next to Neal for the ride home. She was rather sure that his nightmares weren’t so easily gotten rid of, but his spirits seemed to have lifted considerably after their talk with Dr. Hopper. He’d been smiling and chattering, and on the way through the foyer asked if they might visit the playground on Saturday. Belle couldn’t have refused if she had wanted to.

She stood shoulder-to-arm next to Rummond as Horatio drove away, leaning against him just a little. “I have to keep in mind to expect the unexpected from that one.”

“I know the feeling.” Rummond grinned down at her. He reached over, touching the dial of her lapel watch to give it a bounce against her strap. “I’ll take that with me, if you don’t mind, love.”

Belle tilted the bow-shaped pin, spinning the latch with the edge of her fingernail to release it, and closed it again before handing it to him. “How long will it take, do you think?”

“Depends on what’s gone awry to slow it, but I should have it pinned to your apron again in a day or two.” Rummond ran his thumb over the crystal. He could count the days he’d seen her without her watch on one hand. “I’ll take care of it. I know it’s important.”

“I know you will.” She smiled up at him, trying to keep herself aware that they were within view of every window on the front side of the hospital. “Come on, back inside. It’s too cold out here to dawdle.”

“I wouldn’t call that dawdling,” he said, though he turned to go with her. He placed her watch in his pocket. “A few un-hospitaled moments stolen fair and square.”

“Well, let’s re-hospital you for now, where it’s warm,” she teased lightly, giving his robe sleeve a little tug as they reached the top of the steps.

She noticed how he cast looks toward the storage room as they walked through the foyer. and she stopped him with a hand on his arm before they passed the desk. “You want to duck in for a while?” she asked. “I couldn’t stay long, but I could enjoy the quiet with you for a few minutes, if you’d like.”

Rummond hesitated. She could see in his face that he wanted to. “You’ve spent your entire lunch hour with me already.”

“As though I wouldn’t spent the entire _day_ with you, if I could?”

A lopsided smile pulled at one corner of his mouth. “I’d like that.”

Belle felt her expression follow his, unable to help it. “Which one?”

“Both?” he said, and his smile grew.

She laughed, leaning to look down one corridor and then the other. “Go on now, while it’s clear.”

He went around the end of the front desk without so much as a glance from Nurse Lind, so accustomed to his visits she was. When Belle saw him safely inside, she followed, locking the door behind her. He’d spread out his blanket and was just sitting down when she rounded the shelves in the middle of the room. 

Taking her usual spot right next to him, she slipped her hand into his and laced their fingers together, bringing both to rest on her lap. She ran the fingertips of her other hand between his fingers, as well, where they curled over her knuckles. Belle reveled in being able to touch him without having to worry about what a single other person in the world thought about it.

‘Quiet’ lasted somewhere in the vicinity of five minutes before held hands turned into kissed hands turned into a proper kiss. He brought her hands up to his mouth, pressing kisses to her fingers while she watched. She reclaimed one hand to stroke the back of her fingers against his cheek, partially to give him the affectionate gesture, and partially to see him lean into her touch. It gave her such a lovely feeling to know that he sought contact with her so much that he reached unconsciously for it.

Rummond lifted his hands, cupping his palms against her jaw, and leaned in to kiss her. At first, they were only the gentlest of kisses - little more than sharing breath and brushing his mouth over hers. He caught her bottom lip, holding it between his own before pulling back and changing angles so that he could catch her upper one. She took advantage of having his lower lip then, giving it a lick and a graze of her teeth before he could pull back again. As he did, he sucked gently at the center of her top lip in a way that made her squirm and had her toes curling in her shoes in want of more. 

She slid her hands over his sides to wrap her arms around him, ending up with her fingers clenched in the silky fabric of his robe. She surged forward for a deeper kiss and he more than welcomed her. The way he curled the tip of his tongue against her palate just behind her teeth sent a flood of warmth down through her belly, and Lord, it wouldn’t have taken much at all for her to climb into his lap and undress both of them enough for a quick… _liaise._

“Don’t play the idiot, Nurse Lind.” The sniping voice carried through the door and into the back of the room. “I know good and well where he is.”

Their kiss broke with the rude interruption. They stared at one another with horror-wide eyes before untangling themselves and scrambling to their feet.

“Apparently not,” the desk nurse replied with a bit of a mocking lilt. “I’ve not seen a single person go into the storage room today.

“The door is locked,” Belle breathed, reassuring herself as well as Rummond.

“And how long until Nurse Lind has to give her the key?” he whispered back to her, something tight in his voice.

Belle looked to him and found his eyes locked on the door, doing his best to hide his worry. She shook her head. “Mal won’t give it to her,” she said staunchly.

She was absolutely certain that Mal wouldn’t give in to Nurse Mills’ demands. Not with the animosity there. She hoped. 

“Do you know, I believe you’re lying,” the head nurse accused. “He isn’t on the ward, he isn’t with a doctor. This is the only place I haven’t been able to search, thanks to that slippery key you claim to have trouble keeping handy.”

“You’re ridiculous, Regina,” Nurse Lind told her.

Belle’s eyebrows rose. She wasn’t certain how many people she had ever heard call the head nurse by her given name, but it wasn’t many, and she didn’t think she’d ever heard Mal use it.

“You’re making a fool of yourself,” the desk nurse said. “There’s no one in there.”

 _Bless Mal’s willingness to lie for us,_ Belle thought.

“Then give me the key! I know you have it!” Footsteps approached the door, and Nurse Mills gave the handle a violent yank, making it rattle dangerously.

Rummond and Belle exchanged a look of concern. It wasn’t as though the head nurse could pull the door off its hinges, after all, but the rage there was unsettling. When she’d tired of pulling at the handle, she beat at the door with her fist.

“You listen to me,” Nurse Lind said. “I don’t know what the hell is wrong with you, but I imagine you had better see to it sooner rather than later. Whatever you think of me, you’d better believe me when I tell you that you need to see to your behavior. Ideally _before_ you cause injury to the wrong person and you end up rooming next to your sister”

“Shut your mouth,” Nurse Mills snarled. She slammed a hand against the door once more. “I know you’re there, _Captain_ Gold. I know you’re listening. A time will come when we’re both in a position for a dose of retribution, and don’t think I’ll let it slip by me. I’ll make you regret dragging your spineless carcass back from the war in ways that will have you _begging_ to go back to the Germans. You won’t be able to hide in closets and behind nurses’ skirts forever.”

Belle realized that the head nurse hadn’t the first idea that she was in there with him. Nurse Mills thought that Rummond was in the storage room alone. She wouldn’t have been saying such things otherwise. Belle slipped her arm through his. He was still, his face pinched and his lips pressed thin.

“I want that damned key!” Nurse Mills yelled, turning away from the door again. “If you won’t hand it over, I’ll just find it for myself.”

There was a banging of desk drawers and the heavy sound of files slapping to the tile floor.

“You’re mad,” Nurse Lind said. “Get out of the files. Leave them alone, you’ll have everything scrambled.”

“Then give me the key!”

There were a couple of seconds of silence before the desk nurse squawked indignantly. “Get your hands off of me!”

“Do I need to bring orderlies out to search your person?” Nurse Mills clearly threatened.

Mal laughed. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“It would benefit you to not push me, Nurse Lind,” the head nurse said. “I could very easily fire you, and-”

“Oh, my dear,” Mal interrupted in a velvety voice. “The dive your reputation has taken? I would _love_ to see you try.”

Nurse Mills’ voice fell low, malicious. “You’ll see a great many things before all is said and done.”

Unintimidated, Nurse Lind told her, “You know, it occurs to me that perhaps the groundskeeper has a key. He does have keys to most of the hospital.”

Belle knew full well that he didn’t. Mal was the only person in the hospital who had one. She was attempting to send Nurse Mills away on some goose chase. Belle slipped her arm away from Rummond’s and picked the blanket up from the floor, quickly folding it and tucking it away in its hiding place.

“What are you doing?” he whispered.

“Nurse Lind is giving us a chance to go back to the ward. Get ready,” she told him.

Something else hit the floor with a small _clang._ Belle suspected the head nurse of knocking it off the desk out of spite. 

“You’d better hope he does,” Nurse Mills snapped.

“I’m sure you’ll be back with your huffing and puffing if he doesn’t,” Nurse Lind remarked, and they heard the head nurse’s footsteps stalk away, fading as she left the foyer.

Belle urged Rummond nearer the front of the room. They both received a bit of a startle when Mal opened the door and poked her head in a few moments later.

“If the pair of you don’t want to be caught by that, I’d get back to the ward _now,_ darlings,” Nurse Lind said, giving Belle a wink.

“Thank you!” Belle told her, putting a hand on Mal’s arm and giving it a quick squeeze as she stepped out past her. “Watch the other corridor?”

She brought Rummond out with her. Ordinarily, she’d have had one of them go back to the ward a few minutes before the other. If Rummond was caught out by himself today, though, she was no longer certain what the head nurse might take into her head to do to him.

Belle hurried to the split between the north and east wings to look before waving Rummond along ahead of her. She turned back to Mal, and the desk nurse met her halfway. “Run down to the kitchen and ask Zelda to make a cup of tea. It needn’t be good - just as quick a cup as she can make.”

She saw Rummond look back to make certain she was following, and she ran to him, looking over her shoulder as Mal turned the corner behind her. She pushed the ward door open and hurried him through.

“Graham,” she said, waving him over and interrupting his conversation with Ruby. “Keep an eye on Rummond. Nurse Mills is having some sort of tantrum, and I don’t want him being anything _near_ alone with her.”

Graham barely had time to nod before she darted off the ward again, heading toward the kitchen and the cup of tea that would serve as her alibi. Mal was hurrying back out to the front desk, and Belle gave her a whispered, “Thank you,” as they passed.

She thanked Zelda, as well, and barely took time to pause for the tea, turning on her heel to head back. She managed to get halfway up the east corridor before hearing a voice from behind her.

“What are you doing off the ward?” Nurse Mills asked.

Belle’s stomach turned. Remembering the way the head nurse had spoken when she thought Rummond was locked in the storage room alone, Belle entertained an imagined flash of herself throwing the hot tea in the woman’s face. 

“Fetching a cup of tea for Lieutenant Hargreaves,” she said, holding the cup on its saucer up as though the head nurse needed help seeing it.

“Oh, really?” Nurse Mills smirked. “And here I thought you only fetched for your Captain Gold.”

“I have an entire section of beds to tend to,” Belle reminded her.

“I’d begun to assume you’d forgotten you had more than one”

Belle narrowed her eyes. “I take care of each and every one of my patients.”

She sped up a little, turning to bump the ward door open with her hip. She took the tea right past Rummond’s bed and handed it to Jefferson, who managed to turn his look of confusion into one of expectation. Ever helpful, the Lieutenant played along.

“No cream, one lump of sugar?” he said.

“Just as you asked.”

“Thanks ever so, nursie,” he replied with a grin, having a sip of tea that she knew he in no way enjoyed. Nurse Mills, however, wasn’t observant enough of her patients to know that he preferred so much cream and sugar in his tea as to make it resemble a dessert in itself.

She cringed as the head nurse turned, backtracking to Rummond’s bed.

“I trust you had an enjoyable break from the ward _Captain?”_ Nurse Mills sneered, stopping near Rummond’s footlocker.

“If you call an appointment with Dr Hopper a break, I suppose,” Rummond replied with a coolness to his tone that surprised Belle.

The head nurse gave a derisive snort. “Oh, is that where we’re claiming you were? Over lunch?”

He ignored her intent, focusing on her words. “I’m certain the doctor would be happy to explain to you about the necessity of the occasional extended therapy session.”

“I’m sure he _would.”_ She placed her hands on the rail at the foot of his bed, leaning into her glare. “I trust you heard all that was meant for you to hear.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said with fine put-on expression of bewilderment and a shake of his head, giving her nothing. “The doctor and I had a good talk, if that’s what you’re asking after.”

Nurse Mills’ jaw tightened until he almost expected to hear teeth crack. She pushed herself upright again and gave her apron a yank to straighten it before all but storming away.

Belle waited until the head nurse had gone off the ward to leave Jefferson’s bedside and cross to Rummond’s. He looked up at her, but the smile he gave her was not a heartfelt one. He was as worried about Nurse Mills’ fit of anger toward him as she was. She lay her hand on his shoulder for a moment before heading across the room to talk Nurse Boyd into switching with her so that she could have the night shift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In celebration of the two TEA awards that Better to Face the Bullets won last month, I'm having a promptathon this weekend - the 11th and 12th - all day both days. Whether you have a tumblr or not, everyone is welcome to [stop by and send in prompts](http://ishtarelisheba.tumblr.com/ask). It isn't restricted to BtFtB, it'll be completely open. You can prompt for [any of my other 'verses](http://ishtarelisheba.tumblr.com/fic) or something completely new, if you want. I'll be taking prompts and writing starting when I wake up on Saturday morning, and I hope you guys decide to participate! :D
> 
> Also, just in case anyone missed it, there's [a new BtFtB one-shot](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10191983) revolving around little Rummond and young Dove. (Malcolm is present at that time, so there are warnings in the tags.)


	124. Whether You Can Fly

It was Humbert who delivered the post around the ward on Thursday afternoon, and Rummond hurried to hide away the parcel he received before Belle could see. He still had a couple of weeks, and that would _ideally_ be enough, but one never knew what might happen.

He waited until she had to tend a task off ward to bring the package out again and sort through it. Everything he’d sent away for had arrived. There were a few components he’d been unable to turn up in the tin box of parts that the doctor had given him and a blank watch face. The face would need to be cut down with metal snips and painted, but that could be done easily enough. A good length of gold chain was wrapped around a wooden spool at the bottom of the parcel. It was the fashion, those overlong necklaces. The chain was studded with widely-spaced golden beads in the shape of tiny rosebuds; he thought it was just the thing.

Rummond quickly measured the chain against himself to double check that it was right. He took the rest of the order out, placing the pieces in his bedside table drawer. Dropping the empty box to the floor, he used his cane to push it beneath his bunk. He could throw it away when Belle’s shift was over. 

The open ends of the chain were convenient. Its beads wouldn’t slide through the bail of the pendant he meant for it, so he slipped one side of the chain through and used the fine pliers from the tool kit to open a delicate link and connect the ends. Easy as that. The rest of the assembly would take much longer.

With the pendant shell and its chain coiled neatly away in the near corner of the drawer, he set about bringing together everything he would need to place a watch in the pendant again. Belle’s lapel watch sat on his knee as an excuse for digging through watch parts in the event that she saw what he was up to.

After most of what he needed was folded carefully into a handkerchief, he went through the list in his head to be certain that he had everything. To his relief, the only thing he lacked was a set of watch hands. He remembered seeing a loose set in the smallest miscellanea at the bottom of the tin box - just the right size, and enameled a shade of blue that would fit with the case. He began removing larger components until he could sift through to find them.

The sun came out from behind the clouds, sending bright sunlight through the windows across the aisle. Spring hadn’t quite arrived, but it was getting closer. He couldn’t see much from where he sat, but he looked at the window as he considered how he might paint the watch face. Something simple and elegant. The Roman style wouldn’t fit with the pendant’s design - far too spindly for _Style Moderne_. He decided to keep an eye out for a nice typeface to imitate. 

Belle bumped the ward door open and slipped through, her hands full. She carried a cup of tea for Reyes, aspirin for Lieutenant Hargreaves, and a glass of quinine water for Commander Strand. It had been one of those days. She’d hardly gotten to sit down before someone had her up for something else. It wasn’t that she minded - not for her patients, at least. She minded when it was Nurse Mills who had her hopping to and fro. Being sent to the other end of the hospital with a message that the head nurse could easily have sent with one of her orderlies felt ridiculous, and four trips down to laundry before noon were a bit much.

Once she’d finished with her current round of deliveries, she went to Rummond, to see how long she might get to sit with him before she was hurried off again. She found him gazing out the window across from him, his tin box full of clockwork open in his lap. He was so unusually preoccupied that he didn’t notice when she walked up to his bedside.

Belle touched the back of his hair, giving him a gentle notice that she was there. It seemed to startle him a little, but he didn’t flinch away. She smiled down at him as he blinked up at her. 

“Woolgathering?” she asked softly.

“Something like that.” He returned her smile as she stepped down a bit again to sit on the edge of his bed. “I’ve got your watch finished.”

“Do you?” She perked up a little at that. “It’s running on time?”

Rummond took it from his knee and held it out to her in the palm of his hand. “There were a few spots of rust on the hairspring that slowed it,” he explained. “I cleaned it off with a bit of oil, checked and oiled the rest, made a slight adjustment to the weight of the balance. It should run just fine, now.”

Belle somewhat got the gist of his watchmaker’s argot, but the sound of it was lovely, regardless. She took her watch, her fingertips stroking along his palm as she did. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

“Very welcome,” he said, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. 

He curled his fingers, catching hers for a moment before letting her hand slip away. The smallest instances of affection from her made him feel as though he fell in love with her all over again. They seemed so casual on her part, those touches and endearments. She was accustomed to that sort of thing, he supposed - everyday touches to and from people who meant something to her. He didn’t think he would never be able to take them for granted. He didn’t _want_ to.

“Belle…” Ruby singsonged from the front of the ward as she made her way over. “I crossed paths with our favorite harridan in the hallway.”

Belle’s smile sank into an expression of annoyance. “What does she want now?”

“She asked me to tell you to replace the linens in the washrooms. Immediately.”

“Wash _rooms?”_

“As in all of them, apparently.”

“They’ve all become dirty, all over the hospital, all at once?” Belle scoffed. It was busy work, and wasteful, besides. The linens were clean. The laundress had plenty of work to do without adding piles of _clean_ towels to it.

Ruby shrugged. “I knew better than to ask why.”

Belle pressed her lips together. “I swear to God, that woman…” she muttered, then sighed and pinned her watch to her apron strap. She looked to Rummond. “I’ll be back in a while.”

“I’ll wait here,” he told her, giving her a grin as she stood.

“Mm, cute,” she said. “Absolutely adorable.” It was sarcasm, but she couldn’t help smiling at the cheek he gave her.

Rummond watched as she went into the ward washroom and came back out with an armload of still folded linens, annoyance still plain on her face. Nurse Mills’ continual assigning of scutwork for Belle was little more than an inconvenience - though a thoroughly irritating one - and he couldn’t figure what she did it for, outside of being a pest.

She hadn’t been gone from the ward for five minutes when he heard at the front of the room, “Excuse me, nurse, I’m looking for a Captain Rummond Gold?”

He looked up to see Nurse Halloran pointing him out to a black man in a pilot’s jacket. The man smiled, brilliant and charming, and grabbed a chair before he headed the way he was directed.

“You _are_ still alive,” he said with a broad smirk, offering his hand.

“Emrys,” Rummond greeted, taking his hand and giving it a good shake. “You look good.”

The man leaned in and wrapped Rummond up in a hug before he knew it was coming. He laughed, patting Emrys on the back.

“I do, don’t I?” The man sat and leaned back in the chair, lacing his hands over his stomach. “So do you.”

“Now, now. You know what lying gets you.”

“It’s not a lie. It’s an exaggeration,” the man said. “You look better than I’d have thought. How’s that?”

Rummond shook his head, putting the lid on the tin box and setting it aside. “Somewhat better.” 

It took Belle a good half an hour to go back and forth to the laundry. The carts were all conveniently in use somewhere, forcing her to make a trip for every washroom in the hospital. Nurse Mills’ office door was closed and the light was on when she went by, and she hoped that meant she might have a few minutes on the ward.

To her surprise, Rummond was talking with someone when she went back in. She had an automatic jolt of concern - his visitors had so rarely been of the non-upsetting variety - before she saw him smiling at the stranger. She hesitated to go over. The stranger wore a pilot’s jacket, and if Rummond wanted to talk with him privately, she didn’t want to nose in. Not blatantly, anyway.

Her indecision was settled when Rummond looked up. He caught her eye, beckoning her with a wave. When she went over, he reached for her hand and drew her down to sit when she gave it to him.

“Belle, this is Captain Ambrose Emrys,” he introduced. “Emrys, this is Nurse Belle French.”

“Lovely to meet you, Nurse French,” Captain Emrys greeted, waiting until she extended a hand to shake it.

“And you, Captain,” she returned with a smile. 

She recognized him vaguely, and it took her a moment to remember from _where._ It wasn’t until he smiled back at her that she finally realized that it was from the newsreels of Rummond she’d seen. The recognition and memory of how he and Rummond had been obvious friends made her warm to him a bit more immediately.

“I was just telling Emrys about you,” Rummond said, squeezing her hand before letting go.

Belle looked between them. “Oh, were you, now?”

“Nothing bad,” Captain Emrys assured her. “And I was telling Gold how my wife is a nurse, as well. She was with the VAD - a head nurse for a hospital in Birmingham, now. Saint Rose?”

“I know it. It’s an excellent hospital.” Belle nodded, looking over at Rummond. It tickled her that they’d been exchanging such information.

They chattered a bit about both hospitals. When they began talking about military, she noticed how Captain Emrys steered well away from anything remarking upon the latter days of the war or Rummond’s ordeal. He had sense, then, and she was glad of it. 

It was Rummond who got them started on tales of their respective years in the Flying Corps. Then Captain Emrys began rather enthusiastically telling the story of how Rummond rescued him, and Rummond went a bit quiet. He didn’t seem uncomfortable, but his smile took on a shy tilt. Belle listened, enchanted by the entire thing. 

“This man can get a plane into the air with hardly a runway at all,” Captain Emrys said with a smile.

“Emrys…” Rummond murmured.

“I was in that plane, myself. My own crash didn’t finish killing me - I was worried for a few minutes there that Gold’s rescue would surely finish the job.” Captain Emrys chuckled, ribbing his friend.

Rummond only shook his head.

 _“Never_ seen a stunt like that. A takeoff with next to no clearance? In the dead of night? Not in fifteen years and three branches. Not a successful one, anyway.”

Belle looked to Rummond. She wasn’t surprised in the least. She _was_ proud, though.

“Seriously,” Captain Emrys said, the teasing gone from his voice. He reached into his jacket and pulled a wallet from the inner pocket, producing a photograph from it. He held the picture out to Belle. “Remember Nimue? The girl I wrote letters back and forth with? The one who sent the photographs. I looked her up when it was all done with. Married her a week after I got home.”

Belle looked at the picture of Captain Emrys and a very pretty woman with dark hair. He held a child less than a year old, and his wife appeared to be expecting again.

“None of that would have been possible if not for Gold, here,” he said, reaching over to bump Rummond’s nearer knee with the back of his hand. 

Rummond took the photograph and smiled as he looked. “I’m only glad you finally married her,” he said as he handed it back. “Poor girl waited the length of the war for you.”

“She’d have hunted me down, if I hadn’t.” Captain Emrys laughed, tucking the picture away again. “Nurse French, has he ever told you about the time he turned a German fighter pilot into a spy for the Allies?”

“Oh, Jesus,” Rummond muttered. His cheeks flushed.

“He hasn’t!” Belle beamed at Rummond, then back to Captain Emrys. She wiggled to get more comfortable, bringing her feet up to catch her heels on the rail of the mattress frame in anticipation of another tale of derring-do.

“You’ll let me know if I’m telling it wrong.” Captain Emrys gave Rummond a wink and started the story with a bright grin. “Well, you can see he made it back in one piece. There’s no suspense there. He’d been sent up to check on a report of a small group of German soldiers camping inside the French border. So, he did his job and headed back, and as luck would have it, there came a German plane down from some low cloud cover. The pilot shot at him. He shot so damn- sorry. Sorry. He shot so wide, the bullets likely splashed down somewhere out in the Bay, but they didn’t touch Gold’s plane. The German plane veered into him, maybe trying to ram him, I don’t know, _maybe_ trying to turn the other way entirely, the way this boy was flying, and their wings locked.”

Belle’s eyes widened. Locking wings ended in both planes crashing and both pilots dead, more often than not. Survival was lucky, indeed.

“Gold could hear the other pilot screaming at him in German,” Captain Emrys went on. “The boy kept trying to fire, which did _nothing_ more than waste bullets because he was just firing off into open air. Gold could see him. He didn’t even look angry. He looked scared shi- Ah. Scared. Very scared.”

Looking to Rummond, Belle saw that he had the curled fingers of one fist pressed to his mouth, and she wasn’t certain whether he was smiling behind it out of amusement or embarrassment. She patted his leg and looked back to Captain Emrys as he continued.

“Well, they went down in a great patch of scrub oak just inside the French border. Gold got himself out first and had to climb through the tree. Not down, but _through._ Just about the time he got out of his plane, it dropped from the tree like a rock, broke a bottom wing. The German plane was hung upside down and on a good bit of fire, with its pilot dangling from the safety harness.” Captain Emrys illustrated with a swing of his hand. “Gold took one look and he could see the pilot was fourteen, maybe fifteen if he was a day, and clearly not meant for a fighter plane. He’d gone up with no coat, no goggles. Some idiot had put a _kid_ with next to no training in the air, likely for some recon nonsense.”

She’d known that a good many young German boys were sacrificed in such ways - sending children into danger in an attempt to get information. The British military wasn’t innocent of similar things. It was reprehensible, either way.

“By the time Gold got the kid and himself on the ground, the tree was on fire. No, not just on fire - bloody _blazing_ at a roar,” he corrected. “It’d be calling anyone within five miles around to see what had happened. Gold hogtied the boy, apologizing the entire time, and left him where he’d be found by some of his own friendlies before taking off, himself. He found the road and talked a _laitier_ out on morning deliveries into driving him back to the airstrip.”

“But only after he’d delivered the milk,” Rummond added with a reluctantly amused grin.

Captain Emrys laughed. “Ah, yes. Gold helped him to set bottles out on doorsteps.”

“The milkman was eighty years old! It would have taken twice as long to get back, if I hadn’t.”

Belle smothered a giggle. She could imagine it completely.

“Gold went back to the crash site later with a truck and enough men to salvage what they assumed would be wreckage. The tree and German plane were burned to absolute charcoal. Gold’s plane, however, was on the ground under it, a few scorch marks and a broken wing, but otherwise just dandy. They towed it home, the mechanics fixed the wing and patched up the paint job, and it was good as new. You’d think that’s the end of the story, eh?” Captain Emrys asked, shaking his head. 

“I’m guessing no,” Belle said.

“A resounding no.” Captain Emrys clasped his hands together with a clap. “A year later, this German kid walked himself onto the airstrip, and obviously he’s arrested. There was a big to-do about how he got so far without being apprehended, and he barely had enough English about him to ask for a Captain Gold. Well, the arresting soldier, he fetched Gold back to talk to the boy. Turned out he didn’t want to do what the Germans were wanting to make him do. Such as, oh say, stick him in a plane again. Since he’d been picked up after the planes went down, they’d been treating him like- well, they’d been treating him badly. He wanted to work for the Allies, said he’d been told at a pub in town that we were looking for reliable locals to work as spies.”

“The boy was lucky he walked into a pub with a barman who gave him good directions,” Rummond said.

“As opposed to directions right into the nearest police station,” Captain Emrys agreed. “The pilots, they taught him English, gave him some romantic advice when it turned out half the reason he defected was because he’d managed to get himself a French girlfriend who works in munitions for our side. They used him as an informant for the rest of the war. As terrible as this kid was in a plane, he was ten times that good at espionage, bless him. And we got him thanks to Gold, here.”

Rummond shook his head. “I didn’t have anything to do with the bit about turning his coat. The boy decided that on his own.”

“Perhaps not. But he began working with us because you kept him from being burned alive in a tree. He’s still living out in Perpignan, by the by,” Captain Emrys said. “He and that French girl have two children and a goat farm.”

Belle reached over, resting her hand in the bend of Rummond’s arm. He might not enjoy hearing his good deeds recounted, but she felt as if they were beneficial for him to hear. He’d _helped_ people in his life. In the course of his military career, at that. There were good people still alive who wouldn’t be, had he not stepped in. She felt as though she might burst with pride, knowing that. And she hoped someday he could take pride in it, as well.


	125. Like A Beacon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt - _Anyonymous said: A tiny prompt: When I think of my mum, I always remember her scent. A combination of Oil of Olay, lipstick, vanilla and that lovely, warm, comforting and unique 'Mum' smell that would envelop you as she cradled you in her arms. - Does Neal remember how his Mum smelled? Did he ever find comfort in it? And are there things about Belle that comfort him? Her scent as she cuddles him? Her freshly laundered bed sheets when she cradles him after a nightmare? Perhaps the peppermints she always carries?_

Neal dangled from a long pair of trapeze rings on the end of the tall swingset, kicking his feet to make himself sway. He’d been playing on the swings for most of the morning. He liked them most - the way he could make himself go as high as he wanted to, the way his stomach swooped into his toes the second he hit the highest point. Neal wondered if that was what his Papa felt when he flew. Belle had offered to give him a push, but he’d wanted to do the work and swing _high_ on his own.

She sat on one of the benches nearby, and though she’d brought a book along and it lay open in her hand, she was looking at him every time he looked over to make sure she was still there. It was nice, the way Belle paid attention. He felt safe with her watching.

Belle ran her thumbnail against the edge of her book, letting the pages pop over it. She smiled when Neal raised his head to look her way again. He seemed to be enjoying himself, and she was glad of it. The scare with his mother and Jones wasn’t _completely_ a thing of the past - she was as certain of that as she was that he would tiptoe over again sometime not long after being tucked in tonight to ask if he could sleep in her bed - but he wasn’t dwelling on it quite so hard. That was something.

Her foot twitched in time to the music that came from the bandstand just across the lawn from them. There was a small concert being put on. A chamber orchestra played and the occasional singer performed. They could hear it from the playground. She’d asked Neal if he wanted to go over to watch, but he’d declined. He only wanted to play for a while.

A group of children had organized themselves on the roundabout, making it spin as fast as they possibly could. She had seen Neal watching, but he didn’t seem interested in joining them. He seemed content to play alone for now. Belle talked to Guin often enough that she knew he played with a couple of classmates during school recesses, so she didn’t push him to socialize with the others today.

It was nearly lunchtime when Neal abandoned the climbing frame and returned to her, heavy-eyed and a good bit wound down. “Ready to go home?” she asked as he walked over.

“Ready to go,” he echoed, leaning against her knee. 

Neal wanted to stay awake through lunch. Mrs. Potts had made beef stew and toast with garlic rubbed on it, and it all smelled _so good._ His head kept trying to nod between bites, though. He ate part of the stew in his bowl and nibbled at a piece of toast until Belle had finished her own lunch.

He looked up to find Belle squatting next to his chair, and he didn’t know when that had happened. “I believe you’re in need of a nap, darling,” she said, brushing the hair away from his forehead.

“Okay,” he agreed. Naps weren’t always something he liked, but he was sleepy enough today that it sounded like a good idea.

She stood, pulling his chair back, and took the nibbled piece of bread he didn’t remember dropping from the napkin on his lap, setting it on the edge of his bowl. He slid down and she took his hand.

Belle gently herded him upstairs ahead of her, keeping up with his slow pace. He’d played longer today than she’d seen in their other visits to the playground. Neal had worn himself out, and she could only see it as a good thing. Though he hadn’t engaged the other children there, he’d played happily and enjoyed himself in a way he rarely seemed to outside of their back garden.

She guided him along into the washroom to wash his hands and face before changing. “Would you like to put your pajamas on, yourself?” she asked as she pulled a blue and yellow striped pair from the drawer.

He seemed to consider for a second before nodding. “I can do it.”

“Don’t forget to lay your clothes out flat. All right?” she reminded.

She and Mrs. Potts had been trying him on dressing himself properly and taking care of his clothing. He was as conscientious as could be about folding and caring for them, but he still had trouble with closures and tucking things in correctly.

Neal hesitated, scuffing the edge of one shoe sole against the other. “Can I take my nap in your room?” he asked, looking shyly up at her. 

“You can,” she said, running a hand over the back of his hair. “I don’t mind. I’ll be in there when you’re ready.”

Belle left him pushing off his shoes and unbuttoning his little waistcoat, lingering at the doorway long enough to see as he wiggled out of it and laid it on the bed just so. She was confident that he could get through changing his clothes without falling asleep.

She’d curled up in her reading chair when Neal returned in his pajamas, the book they’d been working their way through held under his arm. He handed it to her and she held it as he climbed up to sit with her. 

He had a couple of buttons in the wrong buttonholes. Belle smiled. The misaligned buttons didn’t hurt. What mattered was that he’d gotten himself into his pajamas. He had time before buttons were a responsibility that didn’t receive an adult double-checking, and pajamas weren’t so important that they needed correcting and attention drawn to the mistake. She waited until he’d found a comfortable spot, half in her lap and half squirmed into the space between her and the arm of the chair, before wrapping her arm around him and opening the book to its marker. 

She went back a page to the beginning of the chapter, to read over again what he had missed the night before when she’d continued reading after he had fallen asleep. “‘ _And the secret garden bloomed and bloomed and every morning revealed new miracles. In the robin’s nest there were eggs and the robin’s mate sat upon them keeping them warm with her feathery little breast and careful wings_ …’”

Belle read through Dickon’s little song of praise before assuming from Neal’s lax state and even breaths that he was sleeping. After a few more lines, she trailed off and replaced the bookmark.

“Is it okay if I don’t like my mum?” he asked softly as she was closing the book.

Not asleep, then. Belle left the book on her lap and tilted her head to look at him. 

“Yes, it is.” She had the thought that it could be a self-serving answer. There was no way she could tell him that he had to like the woman who had treated him so terribly, though. “You don’t _have_ to like anyone, darling. If you don’t like her, then you don’t. Your feelings are your own. No one else can tell you how to feel.”

He appeared to consider that carefully, as though the thought hadn’t before occurred to him. She gave him a squeeze and dropped a kiss on top of his head. 

Neal turned his face to nuzzle against her arm. As much as he’d enjoyed the playground, the cold outside still made his nose and cheeks hurt. They were just starting to feel normal again, now that he was in the warm house. 

He thought about what Belle said. He didn’t _have to_ like his mum. That made him feel relieved and a little sad at the same time. He thought about her a lot sometimes, even when he didn’t mean to be thinking about her. Sometimes they were good thoughts, when he remembered her being nice, but he never could make them stay like that. The way she acted after she took him to live with her friend always came in to make the good thoughts hurt.

There weren’t as many good memories of her anymore. It seemed like there were fewer of them than there used to be. He remembered how Mum smelled, though. She had smelled like the oil she put in her hair before she fixed it up, and the soap she washed her clothes with, and the cherry flavored medicine she took sips of at night. After they went to live with her friend, Mum smelled like him - like the drinks they poured from the bottles in the top of the living room cabinet, and his strong perfume, and the smoke they brought back home with them after they had gone out late. The smell he remembered as hers had gone away.

Neal took a breath as he rubbed his nose against the soft sleeve of Belle’s blouse. She always smelled nice, like the rosy cream she put on her hands and arms, and her bath powder and soap, and a little like the tiny bags of dried flowers that Josephine left in with her clothes when they were put away. And sometimes like peppermints and the hospital, when she had on her nurse’s dress. Belle was always, always warm, and she made him feel like it was okay for him to be there. 

“Do you want me to read a bit more?” she asked.

“That’s okay. I think I’m too sleepy for listening,” he said, snuggling close and curling his arms up to his chest as she put her other arm around him, too.

Neal had fallen asleep at last when Mrs. Potts pushed Belle’s door further open. “I’m sorry, dear,” she said quietly, “but you’ve had a call. That Mills woman sent a message through the desk nurse, demanding you come in to work.”

Belle frowned, but she didn’t say what was on her mind. Not with Neal curled up in her lap. She held him for a little longer before brushing a kiss over the top of his head and nodding to Mrs. Potts to take him.

“To his own bed?” Mrs. Potts asked.

“No, no,” Belle whispered, shaking her head. “Tuck him in here. He’ll be expecting my room when he wakes.”

She padded back and forth to fetch her things while Mrs. Potts got him settled. She folded the sheet higher over Neal’s head until she could change into her uniform, grousing silently to herself the entire time about Nurse Mills ruining her Saturday.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

To Belle’s annoyance, she was one of the last few to straggle in. It was an extremely rare thing that she arrived late, and that it happened now as a result of the head nurse calling her in _on her day off_ did not sit well with her.

Nurse Mills had apparently called in the entire nursing staff. Rather than waiting in her office as she usually did before briefings, the head nurse stood in front of her door, watching as Belle and Astrid behind her made their way up the corridor.

“Is this everyone?” she asked, not waiting for an answer before giving a snipe of, “Everyone who will have a job tomorrow, anyway.”

She turned, letting herself into her office and leaving the door open for the rest to follow. Her stance behind the desk was an impatient one, and she watched with a hard expression as the nurses filed into their customary rows across the room.

Belle fell into place behind Graham and next to Ruby, glad to be near them as the head nurse launched into a speech with a tone of unsettling calm only belied by the glitter of malevolence in her eyes.

“Beginning _today,_ I will be instituting a change of policy with the nursing staff,” Nurse Mills began. “There will be no more switching of shifts. No substitutions. No covering. Not so much as an exchange of location of shifts between nurses. If you cannot make it in to work, or you don’t approve of who will be working which shift where, then perhaps you simply don’t want to work here badly enough. 

A murmur went up through the nurses, and the head nurse glared across the assembly of them until they silenced.

“I am also putting my foot down in regards to undesirable behaviors in patients and nurses alike. You are responsible for your patients. Disruption or violence coming from any patient on _any_ ward will result in punishment in the form of docked pay or termination of duties. Furthermore, there will be no sneaking off to secluded parts of the hospital for romantic rendezvous, no matter _who_ the person you are meeting may be.” Nurse Mills looked very pointedly to Ruby and then to Belle. “Violations will be met with the termination of your duties as a nurse at this hospital. I don’t have a single qualm about firing any one of you. Ask the former Nurse Nolan, if you don’t believe me.”

Nurse Mills looked around at them, a stiff smile pulling at her lips in the face of their uneasy silence. “Yes, any and all of you are expendable and replaceable. I will no longer give first warnings. This hospital is going to find itself run more tightly than it’s ever been, and when I find people going against the grain, appropriate punishment _will_ be awarded.”

Belle glanced to Ruby, and she found her friend looking at her with equal apprehension. Talk of punishment and what sounded very much like the whipping boy variety of ‘responsibility’ for patients’ actions was not going to make for a comfortable environment in the hospital. The head nurse was veering into ruling by terror.

Nurse Mills slapped a hand sharply on the top of her desk, making a good half of the room startle. “Are you _listening,_ Nurse French, or will you be my first example?”

Tilting her chin up, Belle met the head nurse’s hard stare. “Oh, I’m listening.”


	126. Purloined Letters

His daily drawings had been delivered and his son’s ‘good morning’ message from the night before had been repeated. Both brought a smile to Rummond’s face. He treasured them in the days between Neal’s visits. 

“They’ve begun learning about the oceans and ocean creatures in class,” Belle told him while he warmed himself from the cup of tea she’d brought, taking the occasional sip. “He’s learned of the existence of flying fish, and he just thinks they’re brilliant. You have a couple of them in your drawings, I believe.”

“Do I?” Rummond smiled, freeing one hand to sort through the little stack of papers. Sure enough, there were two pages filled with all manner of ocean life, including multiple flying fish, carefully set in a background of blue. At least two others included an artfully placed fish among the details. “I love how he acquires these small obsessions. You could sort his artwork into eras by them.”

“He’s doing so well with his arithmetic. He only missed a single problem on his last test - the one with the two-digit numbers? And only that one by an accident in counting.”

“When you see him, tell him how proud I am of him.”

“He knows,” Belle said, letting her hand slide down from her lap to rest between her knee and his. “But I’ll be certain to tell him as soon as I get home.”

He moved his hand down with hers, so that they rested back to back. When she opened her fingers, he slipped his in between as well as he could with their relative positions. She grinned, tilting her hand so that she could hook her fingertips around his, and wiggled them.

“Neal and Christopher are still getting along all right?” he asked.

“Oh, as fine as can be expected. Very… civil.” She snickered, and Rummond gave her a curious look. “They haven’t resumed playing together, as yet, but they aren’t bothering one another, either.”

He shook his head. “I wish my situation hadn’t damaged their friendship.” 

“It is _not_ your fault,” Belle assured him quickly. “Chip goes through these stages of attempting to antagonize everyone after his mother leaves him with Mrs. Potts again. It simply has to pass. Not that he won’t have to mind the consequences for his behavior, but he’ll be all right.”

“And Neal feels better about the entire thing?”

“He really does. He asked whether Grace or Emma might be allowed to come over to play on Saturday. Mary Margaret declined, saying they’ve plans.” Belle said it in a way that made it obvious that she thought it was an excuse. “But Alice is bringing Grace by before lunchtime to spend the rest of the day. We’ll have a lovely time, all of us.”

“Good.” Rummond nodded. Neal and Grace got along well on visitor’s days. He could only imagine that they would have a nice time, making a day of it.

“Nurse French?” Nurse Halloran said as she stepped near the other side of his bunk. “Captain Lapointe is awake now.”

“I’ll get his medicine and be right there.” Belle’s hand slipped away as she moved to stand. “I’ll be back in a while,” she told Rummond, giving him a warm smile before she turned to go.

Captain Lapointe’s burns were in need of cleaning and re-bandaging. The pain from his wounds and the treatment had made his sleep fitful lately, so they’d been waiting for him to wake on his own in the mornings rather than bother him when he finally managed to rest.

Belle went out to ask Nurse Lind, who had ended up with Nurse Nolan’s key, to open the supply closet. She quickly fetched one of the sealed, nitrogen-filled ampoules of neosalvarsan and snapped the glass tip off, pulling the medicine into a clean syringe.

The neosalvarsan doses were doing their job, keeping infection from setting in again so that the open blisters around Captain Lapointe’s temple could work on healing themselves. It was slow going, however. The stomach upset and pain he was experiencing were normal, but they had to keep a close watch on him for rashes and jaundice. If his liver failed, healing his burns would be the least of his problems.

She took a clean basin from the cupboard and set the rest of her supplies in it, as well, taking them back to the ward. 

She sat down on the edge of Captain Lapointe’s bed. “I need your arm, Captain.”

He frowned a bit, though he did as she asked. “That again, huh?”

“Yet again,” she agreed as she opened his cuff buttons and rolled his gown sleeve up. “Relax your arm completely.”

He leaned his head back against the headboard, his clouded eyes on the ceiling. Belle placed the tourniquet above his elbow and gently poked around for a good vein, wiping the spot with a bit of rubbing alcohol when she’d gotten one. “You’ll feel a good sting,” she warned. 

There was a flinch around his mouth as she slid the needle in, and she released the band of rubber from around his arm. The Captain’s face pulled in a definite grimace as she pushed the syringe’s plunger. 

“There we go,” she said, dropping the syringe back into the basin. “One more down.”

Gardner walked up, standing impatiently with a breakfast tray in his hands until Belle gestured for him to leave it on the footlocker. They usually tried to get Captain Lapointe’s bandage changes done before the trolley came in so that he could have the comfort of a hot meal afterward, but it didn’t always work out that way.

Nurse Halloran leaned over him, beginning to unwind his bandages. The grim expression on her face turned into relief as she pulled away the last of the wound dressings. “This is looking so much better,” she said, dropping them into the basin as Belle held it over. “I’d estimate another week and a half, and they’ll be healed completely?”

Belle nodded her agreement. There was no blood, no longer any signs of infection at all. The wound margins were advancing. A week or so seemed like a good estimate. 

“Oh, don’t make promises,” Captain Lapointe said with a small smile.

“No promises. Only hoping,” Belle told him, patting his shoulder. She passed the bottle of phenol across.

He groaned quietly as Nurse Halloran cleaned the open parts of his burns, and Belle felt badly for him being in such pain. There was no one to blame for it, though, besides whoever set the mustard gas on his men in the first place. 

When they had Captain Lapointe rebandaged and plied with half a tablet of Luminal to take after he’d had breakfast, to get him through the more immediate unpleasant effects of the medicine, Belle cleaned up and went back to Rummond. The rest of the ward’s breakfast trays had been cleared away by the time she sat down with him again, and he’d picked up his book to read a while.

To her delight, he had made a great deal of progress with his book. His concentration had improved and he’d managed to get a good two-thirds of it behind him. She did miss reading to him as often as she had been, though. 

“I was just thinking about doing a little work on a watch,” he said as she made herself comfortable. He ran the creased and soft piece of paper that he’d been marking books with between his fingers. 

Belle watched the way it laid over his hand when he stopped. He had been using the same bit of paper to mark his page since he’d borrowed the first book from Hargreaves so many month ago.

“You need a proper bookmark,” she observed. 

“Ah, this far in?” he smiled with a wrinkle of his nose and shrugged one shoulder. “I’d say I’m attached to it now.”

“That poor, sad thing,” she teased, returning his smile. “You’ll search for your place some morning and find it’s dissolved into nothing.”

He clucked his tongue in a moue of pretended regret. “The service of a bookmark _is_ a ruinous one.”

“Not if it’s more than a torn sliver of stationery.” She gave his knee a playful bump and held out her hand. “You find a watch to work on and I’ll read a bit. How’s that?”

“I quite like that arrangement,” he said, taking a ridiculously extreme bit of care with setting his marker between the pages before handing her the open book.

Belle shook her head, setting it on her lap. “Where are we, then?”

“The laughing bird.” He reached over to touch the page before the last sentence he’d read. “Just there.”

She waited for him to bring out his tools and someone’s pocketwatch, letting him settle himself into fiddling with it before she began. _“‘A bird gave a wild laugh, a monkey chuckled a malicious question, and, as fire fades in the hot sunshine, his words flickered and went out.’”_

She heard a quiet sigh and glanced up to see a more peaceful smile on his face. It seemed that she wasn’t the only one who had missed the moments they took for her to read aloud to him. The knowledge of that gave a cheerful lilt to her voice.

 _“‘By degrees as the river narrowed, and the high sandbanks fell to level ground thickly grown with trees, the sounds of the forest could be heard. It echoed like a hall,’”_ she read, falling into a comfortable rhythm. _“‘There were sudden cries; and then long spaces of silence, such as there are in a cathedral when a boy's voice has ceased and the echo of it still seems to haunt about the remote places of the… the roof…’”_

Belle's words thinned and trailed off as Nurse Mills walked onto the ward. Her cheerfulness fell to a feeling of annoyance. She resolved to keep going, if for no other reason than to spite the head nurse, but before she could continue, she realized that Nurse Mills was headed directly for them.

“Nurse French,” the head nurse said, and there was a new edge to her speech. “A delivery of supplies and medicine has just arrived. You’re to open the packages and make certain that everything is accounted for before the delivery man leaves.” The head nurse gave her a smile stretched too wide. “And when you’ve finished, you can run down to the laundry and make an inventory of supplies there. We don’t need the disaster of filthy linens and no way to wash them, now, do we?”

“Yes, _ma’am._ We couldn’t have that,” Belle bit off with no small amount of sarcasm. Being trotted off to do busy work was wearing very thin. She closed Rummond’s book and set it aside, standing to face the head nurse.

Nurse Mills attempted to tower over her, but the effect had lost its imposition. She looked dreadful. Her hair looked three days done and her dress was creased. There was obvious agitation in her face as she looked down on them. Belle was not anxious to leave Rummond in the woman’s presence.

“I’ll be back in a little while,” she said, looking to him. “There are other nurses around if you’re in need of anything.”

She may as well have told him, ‘call for help, if you need to,’ and the head nurse gave her a sneer for it. She would have had Ruby go in to keep an eye on things if Ruby hadn’t felt so ill on Friday that the head nurse, herself, had sent her home until she was no longer contagious.

Rummond resisted the urge to watch Belle leave. The head nurse walked away from his bunk, and for a moment, he felt relieved. Perhaps it turned out that she somehow wasn’t in the mood to jab at him today.

He watched as she approached Nurse Halloran. After a short exchange and a taken aback frown, the younger nurse headed off, as well. The only nurse actually _on_ the ward with that was Nurse Boyd, who stood at the back of the room with one of her patients, talking and laughing. His stomach dropped at the prospect of being left with Nurse Mills’ manner of supervision.

As soon as Nurse Halloran had left the ward, the head nurse returned directly to him. “Now, then,” she said, stepping uncomfortably near his bedside. “We can have a chat, just you and I.”

“I can’t imagine what we might have a conversation about,” Rummond muttered. He turned his attention back to the watch he worked on.

“No? Well, I believe I can supply a topic.” Nurse Mills pulled something from her apron pocket, and before he knew it, she’d slapped the bundle down into his lap.

He had the case of the pocketwatch in his hand - that was all saving it from being knocked apart by her showy little fling of papers. Rummond set the watch on the tool case and folded it over to protect the open timepiece.

“What are you on about now?” he asked, trying to make some sense of what she’d decided to needle him with _this_ time.

He picked up one of the pieces of paper. It was filled with scratchy, uneven lines of script. Letters. Each and every one of them, a letter opened and smoothed almost flat, the edges rounded and softened with repeated readings. His eyes darted over the handwriting, picking out words as the head nurse glared down on him.

_…despite the glory of war, how I long for the peace of your arms…_

_…how many times I wish I’d met you before I saw an aeroplane, for wings and guns have nothing on your smile…_

_…dearest, I count the hours until I return to your bed, to take my place between your legs…_

“What _is_ this?” He sifted through the stack. It was more of the same, all of them.

“I’ve proof of what a cowardly lecher you are, and I intend to show your dear nurse every word of it,” Nurse Mills spat, leaning over him a bit more. “Every vile, loathsome word.”

Rummond caught a detail that sent his blood running cold. Finding the last page of a letter, he saw his own name signed at the bottom.

He looked at the letters and then up at the head nurse with a combination of bewilderment and fear. 

“Do you _truly_ believe that Nurse French will want anything to do with you once she knows what you’ve done?”

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

Belle walked back down the corridor from the foyer, heading toward the laundry room. Thankfully, there wasn’t much in it to inventory. Laundry soap, lye, bleach. Three washing machines and two mangles. The odd and rarely-used washboard. She would be back on the ward well before lunch. And then Nurse Mills could come up with yet another task that could very well be done by any one of her pet orderlies.

“Ridiculous,” Belle mumbled to herself after turning the corner onto the north wing. “I don’t know what she thinks she’s doing, sending me on piddly errands. If she believes that she can drive a wedge between Rummond and I with inventory and busy work, then I have a wedge I can drive right-”

“Why is she at work today?” one nurse asked another in the hallway with obvious confusion just about the time Belle passed them. “If my sister had just gone such a way, I certainly wouldn’t be traipsing around this place so soon after.”

Belle stopped so quickly that her balance wavered. She spun to stare at the pair of women. “What did you say?”

Both of the other nurses turned to look at her. “I didn’t mean that as an insult to the hospital, Nurse French! The hospital is fine, as far as the hospital itself is-”

“No,” Belle shook her head, stepping toward them. “No, what you said about the nurse’s sister. What do you mean?”

“Oh…” Nurse Mannion glanced to Nurse Fletcher next to her. “Her sister committed suicide on Sunday night. She got up to the sanitarium roof somehow and jumped. I thought everyone had heard by now.”

Belle’s heart leapt to her throat. She rushed past them, setting off at a run.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

“I’ll pay for repairs on Whale’s machine, myself, and I’ll make certain that _I_ am the one holding the probes to your head, this time. You’ll have no naïve nitwit of a nurse deluded into helping you. Not this go around. Not when I’ve given her the evidence she needs to be rid of you.”

“She won’t believe you.” Rummond shook his head, but the papers he held trembled along with his hands. How could Belle not believe it, once she’d seen the letters?

He heard the ward doors swing open hard, but the head nurse braced a hand on the headboard of his bunk, leaning so that she could seethe her threats right into his face. He cringed, turning away from her.

She reached slowly, wrapping clawed fingers in the front of his robe, clutching a handful of it in her fist. Rummond dropped the letters, automatically lifting a hand to wrap around her wrist, trying to pull her hand away from him.

“I’ll keep you strapped down and lit up until your brain pours from your ears and you have no choice but to spend the rest of your life in a padded room, twitching and soiling yourself,” she said, and there was unmistakable glee in her voice. “And rest assured that I will visit you, because I want to _see_ you live in your own filth, the same way you condemned my sister to live the last days of her life.”

 _“Nurse Mills!_ Step away from my patient!” 

As Nurse Mills pushed herself away from him, she gave him a solid shove backward. His head connected with the headboard hard enough to make his vision flash, and he saw stars. Rummond had to blink a few times before he saw Belle standing right behind the head nurse, Humbert standing with her. The ward doors opened again, and Quinn and Gardner followed them in.

“Get away from him,” Belle ground out between her teeth, and she could feel her face flush hot with anger. “You haven’t the right to treat _any_ patient the way you’ve treated him.”

Nurse Mills had been trying to get rid of her for some period of time enough to cause real harm, and Belle knew it. If Ruby had been in to pass along gossip, she’d have known sooner that the head nurse would be eager to hurt Rummond. As it was, she could only be glad she’d gotten back to the ward as soon as she had.

“The entire ward’s just seen you threatening Captain Gold with their own eyes,” Belle said, stepping so near the head nurse that she could have kicked her shoes. “This isn’t going to be brushed under the rug any longer.”

Nurse Mills laughed, and it wasn’t a sound of amusement. It was sharp and mocking, and she raised a hand to grasp Belle’s chin hard between her thumb and forefinger. “Oh? Do you think I’ll receive another scolding? Another few days of leave?”

Belle flicked her head to remove herself from the touch and slapped the head nurse’s hand away. When Nurse Mills sneered and lifted her hand again, Belle grabbed it and held it off. 

“I think you’ve overstepped your bounds for the last time, _Regina,”_ Belle snapped.

“And I think you and your pet Molly are outmuscled.” Nurse Mills twisted her hand out of Belle’s grip and pushed her backward.

Before Belle could regain her momentum to move forward again, Quinn grabbed her apron straps where they crossed at her back, giving her a startling yank away from the others. She squawked in outrage, whirling on him and only succeeding in twisting her apron front.

“Get your hands off her!” Rummond yelled in a tone that might have chilled her had it not been in her defense. He rose from his bed, papers scattering from around him.

“Excuse me,” Reyes said as he hefted himself up from his bed, wrapping a hand around Quinn’s arm before Rummond could reach them.

The orderly looked as though he might wet himself. He let go of Belle, and she pulled her apron straight. 

“Keep an eye on him,” she told Reyes. “And Gardner, too.”

The tall, broad Corporal nodded, fixing both orderlies with an unhappy look. “My pleasure, Nurse French,” he declared without a stammer.

She was fairly certain that the gentle giant wouldn’t harm either of them unprovoked. They were simply bluffed by his size. She couldn’t have been terribly upset at the moment if he gave their heads a good, solid knock together and left them in a heap, though.

“Stepping in now won’t do much good when you’ve gone home for the night,” Nurse Mills said, giving a smirk that Belle would dearly have loved to wipe off her face.

“I can always stay for the night shift,” Belle replied, not cowed in the least. “I’ll stay for as long as it takes to see you out and away from my patients.”

The head nurse laughed. “Not if you want to keep your job.”

“You think I would put my job above a patient’s life?” 

“I think you will, if you wish to remain in good health, yourself.”

Quinn decided that it was a good time to take a swing at Corporal Reyes, and Gardner followed suit. Reyes simply tossed Quinn to the floor, but Gardner’s punch connected - not that it did a great deal of good. Reyes frowned, appearing as though his feelings were hurt more than anything, and he grabbed the other orderly, as well. He gave Gardner a sock that appeared half strength, and the orderly’s legs sagged out from under him. The Corporal dropped him next to Quinn.

“Silence!” Belle heard from the front of the ward. “Quiet!” But there was too much chaos to give it attention.

“You can make a whore of yourself if you like, but I won’t allow what he has done to my family to pass!” Nurse Mills yelled, flinging a pointed finger back at Rummond.

Belle matched her volume, stepping close again and giving the head nurse a pointed finger of her own. “Call me a whore _once more_ and you won’t have to worry about passing anything!”

“Keep it up, Nurse French, and I’ll make certain you wind up in an asylum, as well!”

“Oh, I invite you to make some attempt! You won’t find it nearly as easy to harm me and hide it as you have the patients in this-”

 _“Shut the hell up! Every single one of you!”_

An entire ward full of people turned to look at Dr. Whale, standing before the doors with an expression so dark that Belle practically expected his outburst to be punctuated by a bolt of lightning.

“My office!” he bellowed through the room. He took a step back to push the ward door open, holding it and waiting, glaring directly at the group involved in the fray.

Belle expected Nurse Mills to appear chastened. Instead, a pleased smile stretched itself across the head nurse’s face as the woman bent to pick up the papers from the floor.


	127. A Lie Will Go ’Round the World

“I don’t believe that this requires Nurse French’s involvement,” the head nurse said as they filed into the doctor’s office after him. She sent Belle a smug look behind Dr. Whale’s back.

Laughing a bit scornfully at Nurse Mills’ attempt to exclude her, Belle placed herself firmly in front of the desk. “You are not sending me out, not on this.”

Rummond looked from Belle to Dr. Whale. “If I’m to stand under judgment before the administrator over this absurdity, I’d be far more comfortable having _one_ person in the room who’ll know a downright bloody lie when she hears it.” 

_“I_ will be the only one asking anyone to leave, thank you,” the doctor told the lot of them, standing next his the office door, hand on the handle as though he needed to hold it shut. “What did he have to do with this?” he asked, gesturing to Corporal Reyes.

“Nothing,” Belle said before Nurse Mills could open her mouth.

“‘Nothing’?” Gardner scoffed indignantly. “Gave me a black eye is what he did!” 

Belle shook her head. “Reyes was only protecting me because Quinn put his hands on me. Quinn and Gardner attacked him. Reyes defended himself accordingly.”

“All right. You may go,” Dr. Whale said, nodding to the Corporal. He opened the door wide, closing it when the patient had gone, and turned to the pair of orderlies with a raised brow. “Mr. Lowell, Mr. Gardner. You attacked a patient _and_ a nurse all in one go? Haven’t _we_ had a big day?” 

“I held Nurse French back when it looked as if she were going to attack the head nurse,” Quinn claimed without so much as batting an eye.

Belle’s mouth fell open, but she shut it with an audible _click_ before anything terribly unwise came out. “When is the last time _I_ attacked anyone? Or caused anyone any harm whatsoever?” she asked after taking a second more to think, looking to the doctor.

Dr. Whale sighed, looking around at the group. “And what would your excuse be, Mr. Gardner?”

Gardner cast around for a moment, his face lighting up when he landed upon something. “Corporal Reyes is a behemoth, and-”

Belle sputtered at the orderly’s remark. “I resent my patient being called names!”

“We’ll refrain from name-calling, orderly,” the doctor instructed, giving Gardner a look of disapproval. 

“He had hold of Quinn in such a way, I thought the Corporal might kill him!” Gardner exclaimed, quite overselling his tale.

Belle narrowed her eyes. “Oh, bull-”

“Nurse French,” Dr. Whale interrupted.

“Reyes did nothing of the sort!”

“Mr. Lowell, Mr. Gardner, you are both on a week’s suspension. Go home immediately, and I will speak to you both on Tuesday next, not before.” Dr. Whale opened the door and the pair of orderlies filed out, surly over their censuring. “What was Mr. Humbert’s role in the display?”

“None,” Belle said quickly, expecting Nurse Mills would have come up with something. “He had none.”

The doctor looked to the head nurse and then to Graham. “You were there with the rest,” he said. “You filed in along with them.”

“Reyes handily took care of removing Gardner and Quinn from the situation better than I could have,” Graham said. “I was there in the event that Nurse French required additional help.”

When no one disputed what he said, Dr. Hopper opened the door again. “All right, then. You may go.”

Graham looked to Rummond and then to Belle, heading for the office door only when she gave him a nod. He stepped outside, but she didn’t see him go any farther. Dr. Whale gave the door a good slam before circling back around the other side of his desk.

“Well, as it seems we’ve whittled it down to the core of the conflict,” he said, pushing his chair aside so that he could stand in its place. He shifted his eyes from his desk to the three of them before him, ire stealing back into his demeanor. “Does any one of you have an _inkling_ how I feel, being forced to call you in as though you were children to the headmaster’s office? Do you?”

“The entire hospital deserves to be informed of the despicable reprobate it’s been harboring,” Nurse Mills sniped, not in the least contrite.

“That will be enough with the insults,” Dr. Whale told her with a pointed look.

She drew herself up, eyeing him down the tip of her nose. “You’ll change your mind, I’m certain, when you hear what I’ve to say.”

“Oh, do tell,” Belle replied before the doctor could, sending a sharp sidelong look in the head nurse’s direction. “I can’t speak for everyone else, but _I’m_ absolutely on tenterhooks,” 

Nurse Mills curled her lip at Belle’s glib remark, and when she looked to Dr. Whale, he only gestured expectantly. “My sister-”

Dr. Whale, seeming weary of the entire ordeal already, asked, “Nurse Mills, so that we might refer to her by something other than her relation to you, what is your sister’s name?”

“Miss Zelena Mills,” the head nurse pronounced quite clearly, and as though she spoke of some high authority. “I prefer to tell you the full story, doctor, to aid in your judgment of the matter.” She gave him an attempt at a winsome smile.

“Oh, for…” The doctor pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “All right. Get on with it.”

“During the war, Zelena participated in the home war effort. She joined a group of ladies who assembled care packages to send overseas. She attended newsreels and took down addresses to write letters of encouragement to servicemen. It was because of those letters that she came into contact with ‘Captain’ Gold,” Nurse Mills said, her expression souring as she sent a nasty look in his direction.

“Go on,” Dr. Whale prodded impatiently.

“Of course you know that many servicemen wrote back to those who were kind enough to write to them. Gold went over and above, sending letter after letter in response to the one she sent. She showed me four in one week, once, early on.” The head nurse scoffed. “I suppose he knew what he was doing, after all. Flattery and flummery.”

“I never wrote to any Zelena,” Rummond said, shaking his head. “I sent postcards back to a few children who wrote from a school, but never to any women.”

Nurse Mills’ visibly ground her teeth together before she went on. “My sister told me, and she told her friends about their exchange of letters. She corresponded with this- this _rake_ for very nearly a year, until he had her believing that he felt seriously about her. She dragged me to a newsreel to show him to me. I know good and well that it’s him she corresponded with!”

Rummond simply shook his head again and went on shaking it as the head nurse continued her and her sister’s tale. Belle frowned, her arms crossed over her chest and her brow creased as she held narrow eyes on the top of the doctor’s desk and listened.

“He went on regarding how he loved her, how he intended to marry her. He eventually gave Zelena the time and place to meet him - a time during which he would be on leave and wished to see her in person - and she went. I have the letter right here where he tells her!” Nurse Mills shook the fluttering sheaf of letters gripped in her hand. Her mouth twisted. “Without reservation, she went, he had her head filled so with his manipulations and lies! When she returned, she was positively euphoric. Gold had asked her to _marry_ him.”

A snort from Rummond interrupted her, and she turned on him with bared teeth. “Does it give you pleasure, hearing it told from the perspective of the woman you destroyed?”

He turned his head a bit more in her direction. “None of what you’ve told thus far happened. I’m not sure what you wish me to say.”

“I don’t give a damn what you _say!_ It isn’t your words I want, it’s your suffering for what you inflicted on my sister!”

Dr. Whale loudly cleared his throat. “Nurse Mills. Please, finish.”

 _“He_ asked my sister to marry him. No ring, of course. I told her to invite him to meet her friends and myself. I planned a small engagement party at her behest. I should have seen it.” The head nurse gave a short, bitter laugh. “Obviously he didn’t appear. Zelena did her best to contact him. I watched her write letters to him, to his superiors, and she received no word in return. Pilots will protect one another in their depraved conquests, won’t they.”

“I never received a letter about any of this,” Rummond said, and Dr. Whale’s eyes flicked momentarily to him. “Nor did my superior officers come to me with anything remotely like what she says.” 

Rummond’s head spun. He tightened his two-handed grip on the handle of his cane to keep them from so visibly shaking. The story that the head nurse told grew worse and worse, and if either Belle or the doctor believed it, he faced having the life he had worked so hard to regain ripped out from under him. Dr. Whale could likely toss him in any asylum in the country, still being under the hospital’s custody as he was, and if Belle believed that he could do something so reprehensible… 

“Your _Captain_ Gold humiliated her,” Nurse Mills said as she shifted a look of contempt onto Belle. “He jilted her in the worst of ways. She was so devastated that she couldn’t speak of him for weeks. And when she was able to speak, can you imagine what she confided in me?”

Belle’s brows rose as she awaited whatever the next revelation might be. “I’m certain you’ll tell me.”

“When Zelena traveled to visit him while he was on leave, he took her to spend the day in a hotel where, following his deceitful proposal, he took advantage of her. And just this week, I’ve learned that there was more to it than even that!” The head nurse shook the letters in Dr. Whale’s direction once more, then in Rummond’s. “My sister was pregnant with _his_ child!”

Belle’s and Rummond’s heads whipped toward Nurse Mills with this disclosure. The ridiculous shock of it startled a laugh from Rummond.

“And your laughter shows what a monster you truly are!” Nurse Mills all but shrieked at him. “Zelena became pregnant as a result of your manipulations, and the distress of your abandonment caused her to miscarry!”

Belle closed her eyes, giving her head a short shake as she attempted to make sense of it all. “A miscarriage? You witnessed this, I take it?”

“I read of it,” Nurse Mills said as she slapped the papers with the back of her other hand. “She never told me. Too mortified, I expect, of the way your Captain Gold ruined her to confide in even her sister of such a thing.”

“I trust that you can show medical records attesting to it, then?” Belle asked, her voice tight with her efforts to hold back the fury that came with Nurse Mills’ nasty accusations.

The head nurse’s lips twisted into a tight pucker for a moment. “Unfortunately, I cannot. The miscarriage occurred while I was away in Friuli, training head nurses for field hospitals. She spent the time alone in our home.”

“How convenient that is.”

“Are you calling the death of my sister’s child _convenient?”_

“No,” Belle assured her, “I am calling your absence and the timing of her purported convalescence convenient.”

“All right, then, Nurse Mills,” Rummond said, taking the head nurse’s attention off Belle. “When was this meant to have happened?”

“You know when it happened!” the head nurse accused. “You can stop behaving as if you don’t!”

“Then humor me,” Dr. Whale told her. “When did these last events take place?”

“November of ’16. You were on leave the week of the fifth,” she said, sneering down on Rummond. “You spent that Saturday in Devonport with my sister.”

He turned so that he faced her charges head on. “No. I wasn’t. I was neither with her, nor was I on leave then. I was stationed _in France,_ and that’s precisely where I was. I had months without getting back this way for leave - I didn’t so much as get to go home for Christmas that year.”

“You’re lying.” She shook her head. “Zelena threw herself from the roof of the hospital I was forced to commit her to _because of you,_ three years to the day that she lost her child!” 

“At that point in time, I hadn’t…” Rummond hesitated, trying to be genteel about it. “Kept intimate company with a woman in nearly a year. And the only woman I was so much as in the presence of for more than a few moments during that period was my wife. I was never with your sister. In _any_ way.”

 _“Liar,”_ she seethed in his face. “You bloody, craven, _liar!_ You expect me to believe that? When the entire world _knows_ what pilots are?”

“I wasn’t. I didn’t take a woman into my bed at every chance!” Rummond stopped to take a breath, knowing just how it would reflect on him if he allowed his anger to dictate his behavior as her own was. _“This_ is your reasoning for treating me like shite? This tripe?”

“Are you saying it’s my sister who is the liar?” Nurse Mills stepped forward, placing herself square in his space in an attempt to intimidate him.

Prior to the head nurse setting in on him, his day had been a decent one; he had the steel to hold his ground. “I don’t know your sister. I’ve not lain eyes nor anything else upon the woman, no matter what she claims.”

Nurse Mills’ top lip pulled back in disgust. With a jerk of her hand, she flung the letters at his face. “What are these, then?”

He flinched, and the muscles in his jaw tightened in pique at himself for it, but he bent to pick up the papers. Belle held out a hand, and he passed some of them to her when he stood. Rummond looked at the letters, eyebrows rising steadily toward his hairline as he got more than the glance he’d been able to take when the head nurse tossed them at him on the ward.

“These… these are not mine,” he said as he pulled the top paper away to look at the next.

Belle frowned down at the letters in her hands as she read, her heart pounding. She was certain that it wasn’t true. She trusted Rummond. He _wouldn’t_ do the things that Nurse Mills blamed on him. That didn’t stop it from flustering her, however, that the things she read had been written with the intention of people believing that they were from him. 

“‘Your breathtaking titian curls…’” he read aloud before passing the page over to Belle. “Your sister is ginger, I take it.”

“You know she was! Intimately, I’m sure,” Nurse Mills hissed.

“As though I’ve not denied it from each side you throw at me, no, I _don’t_ know. I’ve never met this - what was it she called herself?” He reached across the head nurse to take back the paper that Belle read with a look of awkward disturbment on her face, and he searched for the passage he’d skimmed over. “This ‘tribute to womanhood, with ivory breasts that put the goddess Aphrodite’s to shame.’ Good Lord,” he muttered. “How is it not obvious to you that she wrote these to herself? This is _not_ my handwriting, and it’s certainly _not_ my signature.”

“He’s right,” Belle said. It took her a moment to come around to comparing the script of the letters to what she’d seen of his. “It doesn’t match. Even _if_ the things you and your sister allegate weren’t so far beyond unbelievable, it isn’t Rummond’s handwriting in these letters.”

Nurse Mills made a sound of outrage. “I won’t have you ridicule the woman whose virtue you ground under your heel!”

“I had not a single thing to do with her virtue!” Rummond argued, running a hand over his face in frustration. He made another effort at sense, attempting to leave aside the ridiculousness of the letters. “Nothing has ever once come out of me regarding ‘glory’ in relation to the war, nor would I ever commit to paper obscenities like these letters seem half made of.” He leaned, dropping the papers onto Dr. Whale’s desk.

The doctor picked the letters up, humming as he turned them around to have a look.

“I’ve never met this Zelena. I swear it. _Belle?”_ he said desperately.

“I know,” Belle said, placing the letters that she still held on the administrator’s desk with the rest of them. She met Rummond’s eyes, hoping that her smile wasn’t as weak as it felt. “I believe y-”

“You are _lying!”_ Nurse Mills yelled through the office, her voice rising further as she turned to crowd in on Rummond once more. “You exploited my sister’s feelings for you to trick her into your bed! You got her with child, and your abandonment killed it _and her_ as surely as if you’d murdered them with your own hands!” She turned on her heel to face the doctor. “Does this not count as my sister’s dying declaration?”

Dr. Whale gave her a level look. “Not when everything else is cast in such doubt, and not in such conditions, no.” He peered with clear distaste at a few of the pages that had landed on his blotter. “Where did you obtain these?”

“They were in my sister’s belongings when they were returned to me by the sanitarium after her death,” Nurse Mills said, sniffing.

“Doctor?” Belle asked. “Why not compare it to Captain Gold’s signature on his admission form? It would be a simple way to prove the difference.”

“Might it be possible that I could step out for a few moments and come back _without_ bloodshed in my office?” Dr. Whale looked around at the three people on the other side of his desk and shook his head.

“I’m fairly certain that Mr. Humbert is still in the corridor,” Belle told him quietly.

Dr. Whale sighed again. “I suppose it’s a good thing.”

The doctor went to the door, stepping only half out. He spoke shortly with Graham, and Belle could hear his instructions to fetch Rummond’s admission form from the files at the front desk. What followed were around five minutes of awkward and tense silence while Dr. Whale looked on from the station he’d taken up in front of his office door. Graham knocked and the doctor took the paper provided before going back to his desk.

“Even I can tell that the signature is not the same,” Dr. Whale said, holding the final page of a letter and the form that Rummond had filled out on his first morning at the hospital side by side. He held them out to the head nurse for her own inspection. “The handwriting is worlds apart, as well, Nurse Mills. See for yourself.”

Belle stepped forward to see the pages, pulling them from Dr. Whale’s fingers before the head nurse could. She could see the differences right away. “Rummond tops his I’s with slashes, rather than dots,” she said, “and his loops are thinner. And his script leans right, but it’s level. In the letters, the lines slant down the page. You can’t tell me that these are anywhere near similar.”

Nurse Mills snatched them, louring down at the papers. “It isn’t unheard of for a criminal to disguise their handwriting to avoid being found out.”

“‘Criminal’?” Belle squawked, turning toward the head nurse.

“Nurse Mills,” Dr. Whale warned, the irritation in his features growing weary. “On our hospital admission form? He disguised his handwriting on an admission form?”

The head nurse was staunch, though. “Zelena knew the model of his aeroplane! His squadron number!”

“And so do I, because I _also_ saw them in the newsreels,” Belle said, figuring exactly how this woman had come by such information. “Your sister had no knowledge whatsoever that couldn’t have been seen outright or interpreted in some way from seeing newsreels with Captain Gold in them, which you’ve already told us that your sister often did.”

“You must admit, Nurse Mills, this does make the entire story doubtful,” Dr. Whale told the head nurse, gathering together the letters and offering them back to her. 

“I don’t have to admit a damned thing. He _did_ this, and I will take my sister’s word over this worthless guttersnipe’s.”

“This is why Nurse Mills has been torturing Captain Gold since he was admitted!” Belle said, well past fed up. “This tale that her sister made up out of whole cloth about some fictitious liaison and pregnancy!”

“My sister was practically murdered!” the head nurse yelled directly at her.

“Your sister jumped from the roof.” Belle’s hands closed into fists in her exasperation. “Which is terrible and sad, yes, and I am sorry for it, but Captain Gold had nothing to do with it.”

Nurse Mills gave her a dismissive snort. “You can shut your mouth. This is none of your affair. You shouldn’t even be a part of this.”

“You’re attacking one of my patients - it most certainly _is_ my affair.” Belle lifted her hand in a silencing gesture. She saw that there would be no talking to the head nurse about any of it - apparently not in a way that would ever convince her of her own and her sister’s wrongdoing in the situation. “Dr. Whale, Dr. Hopper has been keeping records of Nurse Mills’ behavior. You might wish to have a talk with him about that at this juncture.”

“Oh?” Dr. Whale said, appearing interested. He seemed to consider for a moment, then came again from around from his desk. He walked to the door, turning to the three of them. “I would prefer to see to this in person. I expect my office to remain standing,” he told them pointedly before going, leaving the door standing open behind him.

Nurse Mills glared over at Belle. “What slander have you participated in with that charlatan?”

“I’m sorry, to which ‘charlatan’ do you refer?” Belle asked coolly. 

“Keeping records on me? I’ll be interested to know just what you think is necessary to make note of.”

“You’ll find out shortly, won’t you?”

Rummond remained quiet, appreciating Belle’s retorts in spite of the head nurse’s continued ranting. His gratefulness that she believed him - believed in him to the degree of _defending him_ \- proved very nearly knee weakening. Perhaps it shouldn’t have been such a profound realization, but it wasn’t something he’d dared expect.

He chanced a glance over, and he and Belle caught one another’s eye past Nurse Mills. He tried to smile, but his mouth just managed to tremble. It was just as well, since Belle’s face held only apprehension.

The few minutes that it took the doctor to make his way to and from Dr. Hopper’s office seemed far longer. The head nurse had fallen into more or less silent fuming when they heard Dr. Whale’s footsteps and he rounded the doorframe. Appearing somewhat unhappier than when he left them, he closed the door with a similar slam. He dropped the file with the heavy _slap_ onto his blotter before parking himself in his chair.

“Captain Gold, Nurse French, please have a seat,” he said with an abbreviated and short tempered gesture. “I assume this will take a while.”

They moved to sit - Belle in the chair before the doctor’s desk on her side and Rummond on the small sofa against the wall, taking the end nearest Belle. The head nurse moved to take the other chair.

 _“Not_ you, Nurse Mills,” Dr. Whale corrected her without looking up.

The head nurse gaped at him, but she stood up straight before she’d touched the chair. 

Belle could see as the administrator opened the file that Dr. Hopper had re-written each of the reports she had helped him to gather, turning them into a more uniform series of testaments. Dr. Whale made his way quickly through them. She watched the journey of emotions that crossed his face. He went from the annoyed though curious expression he’d begun with to a look of concern. She was uncertain which report sent a thoroughly disturbed grimace across his features, but it transitioned to a tight knit of his brow, and his cheeks spotted red in anger. He looked slowly up to Nurse Mills with a scowl before turning the page to continue. 

Something made the doctor’s eyes widen and his mouth fall open, but the next look he gave the head nurse was severe and furious, his lips pressed so firmly together that they’d turned white. He hadn’t yet reached the end when he stopped.

“I…” Dr. Whale began, and he had to clear his throat. He closed the folder and stared down at it. “I will give this a far closer examination later. For now, I believe I’ve seen enough.” 

He stood, hands remaining planted on the top of his desk when he pushed himself up from the chair. Belle followed suit, and Rummond stood with her. 

Before the doctor could speak further, Belle broke in. “I can bring in witnesses who have seen first hand some injuries that the head nurse has caused patients.” 

Ariel would, Belle was fairly certain, and she thought that Mary Margaret was sufficiently disgruntled that she might, as well. She wished that she could have asked Graham to enter his own experiences with Nurse Mills into the record, but she couldn’t bring herself to. Belle hoped that what was there would be plenty.

“I don’t believe that in-person testimony will be necessary.” He shifted his frown to the head nurse. 

“Can’t you see what they’re doing?” Nurse Mills asked, growing more agitated again. “They are shifting fault to me on something else entirely to remove the inquiry from themselves!”

“This is not about something else,” Belle said, hoping to clarify that matter. “This has to do with your actions as a whole, _including_ the way you’ve targeted and mistreated the Captain.”

“I wouldn’t say that Nurse French nor Captain Gold are the ones who have deceived me. You needn’t blame this on either of _them,_ Nurse Mills. I’ve been watching you, myself, for some time,” Dr. Whale informed her. He huffed something almost akin to laugh, though it sounded as if there were a great deal of incredulity behind it. “Even if I were to set aside complaints against you involving the Captain here, there are scores more like them. Did you think that Commander Strand’s family would have nothing to say about the way in which you attempted to humiliate him in front of a ward filled with other servicemen and civilians? Did you truly believe that nothing you’ve done would have repercussions, Nurse Mills?”

“You’re turning this around on me?” the head nurse asked in disbelief. “I came to your office to present you with evidence of the wicked acts that a patient has carried out, and you have the gall, all of you, to make it about _me?”_

“You have made it about yourself! You drew all manner of scrutiny to your own actions,” the doctor told her, standing up straight. “A bare fraction of what I read in this file would be grounds to keep you from ever working in another hospital!”

Belle refrained from explaining that he’d already known a great deal of what was included in Dr. Hopper’s records, but she decided that calling attention to his oversight of the head nurse’s behavior toward patients and staff at that particular time would not be helpful in the slightest. 

“This is because of you. All of it.” Nurse Mills turned to Rummond. “Degenerate,” she hissed directly into his face. _“Coward!”_

“Nurse Mills!” Dr. Whale barked. “That is enough!”

She bared her teeth, moving closer until Rummond had to take a step back. She followed. Belle felt the instinct to stop the head nurse an instant too late.

Rummond had not a split second of warning between Nurse Mills drawing her hand back and her palm striking his face with an ear-splitting _crack._ His head snapped to one side with the unexpected power of it, leaving Belle, Dr. Whale, and himself staring at her in shock.

She reached for his throat with both hands and he reeled quickly away, hearing as well as feeling her nails as they scraped the side of his neck. He lurched backward, losing his balance in the commotion, and hit the floor. 

The head nurse stood over him, her eyes glinting with undisguised hate. “They should have executed you with the rest of the traitors!”

Rummond could hear Nurse Mills’ breathing in the appalled silence, winded in her rage. He caught the satisfied smirk curling at her lips as he dropped his gaze. Her wish, so like what had gone through his own mind so often, did its best to cut into him.

What was she, though? The grudge that she had tormented him over since his arrival was based on layers of falsehoods that she seemed to have no intention of considering rationally. She had shown him nothing more than hate and cruelty at every opportunity. Why should he allow her to twist any further blades in him?

“I’m no traitor,” he said quietly, evenly, as he lifted his eyes to meet hers. “And I’m no coward.”

Belle looked to Dr. Whale, who gaped as though he were having difficulty comprehending what had taken place right there in his office. If this wasn’t proof of what she had been trying to tell the doctor, she didn’t know what could convince him.

The head nurse moved toward Rummond yet again and Belle rushed forward, grabbing Nurse Mills’ arm to pull her away, and she stepped in front of Rummond to keep her from reaching him. “Dr. Whale!”

“You are fired, Nurse Mills!” the doctor shouted when he at last regained his wits.

The head nurse snarled, livid as she wheeled on Dr. Whale. “He doesn’t deserve to _breathe air,_ and you are willing to sacrifice your best nurse in favor of this- this- this _bastard?”_

“You’re _fired._ Effective immediately,” the administrator repeated for her. 

Belle squatted down to check the scratches on Rummond’s neck. Nurse Mills had left bloody marks, but they weren’t quite bleeding. She pulled a handkerchief from her apron pocket to press to the spot, anyway, and reached to touch his cheek where it smarted red from the head nurse’s slap.

“I’m all right,” he whispered to her with a shake of his head, and for once she believed that it wasn’t only an excuse to soothe her fussing.

“You will wait here until I can bring in an orderly to accompany you to your office,” Dr. Whale went on, “where you may pack your personal belongings before you leave the hospital, the property of which you will not set foot upon again.”

Belle stood and turned to face the doctor. “May I suggest Mr. Humbert to accompany her? He’s one of few orderlies who isn’t entirely under Nurse Mills’ thumb.”

The head nurse glared at Belle, who simply smiled. The woman could no longer hurt her, could no longer hurt Rummond nor any other patient, and she was surprised at the weight that lifted from her with realizing as much.

Dr. Whale nodded. “Duly noted. Captain Gold, please accept my sincere apologies for the trouble today, as well as for any wrongs that Nurse Mills may have inflicted upon you over these last months.”

Rummond wasn’t at all certain how to respond. An apology couldn’t erase what the head nurse had done to him. He didn’t know what could.

“I have a suspicion that I may have a great many apologies to perform over the next few days.” The doctor turned back to Nurse Mills, who appeared as though her head might well explode at any moment. He crossed to his office door to once more speak to Graham. 

There was a pause before Graham said, “Gladly, doctor.” 

“This will not stand!” The former head nurse declared. “I will not allow this to stand!”

“You no longer work at this hospital, Ms. Mills,” Dr. Whale said, a haughtiness stealing into his expression as he regarded her. “You’ve no influence on standings, your own or otherwise.”

Graham stood in the doorway until Nurse Mills at last began to make her way down the corridor ahead of him. Belle saw his expression, vindicated and relieved, as he followed the galled _clack_ ing of the woman’s heels away.

She bent down, fetching Rummond’s cane and exchanging it for the return of her handkerchief, offering to help him and pleased when he allowed it. She held firmly to his hand as he accepted the leverage that she gave him to stand. They looked at one another, a bit stunned over the way the conflict had turned out.

“Captain Gold, Nurse French, you may return to the ward,” Dr. Whale said, pulling his waistcoat and then his jacket straight. He appeared as though he were preparing himself for a distasteful task. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to go to the front desk. I have some calls to make.”

They left the doctor’s office, making their way toward the east wing again with Dr. Whale just behind them. It wasn’t until they left him behind with Nurse Lind that Belle’s posture sagged a little with relief of her own. They walked quietly side by side, so near that their hands brushed with every other step. She opened her mouth, but her thought was interrupted by Nurse Mills. From the head of the east corridor, they could hear her screaming behind the closed door of her office. Graham stood outside, a gratified smile having taken up residence on his face. He’d been joined by Mr. Muis.

“I don’t recognize her name,” Rummond said.

“What’s the matter?” Belle looked over at him, and he looked back.

“I still don’t recognize her name. She _could_ have written, I suppose?” he whispered. “I did open a few of the letters I got in the post. The children’s letters, as I said-”

“It was sweet of you to respond to those,” she said, smiling up at him.

“I was lonely for home.” He faltered, the feeling of having failed in some way nagging at him. “I opened others, as well. After I got one that was absolutely obscene, I began tossing anything from a name I didn’t recognize into the rubbish.”

Rummond couldn’t help wondering why the head nurse’s sister had attached to him in such a way, or what about him had made her behave so. _Some_ portion of the events that had transgressed must have been his fault, mustn’t they? For this woman to have taken it so far?

“There’s nothing wrong with corresponding out of loneliness, sweetheart,” Belle whispered back to him. “But those letters weren’t yours.”

“No, they weren’t,” he agreed.

The office door opened and Nurse Mills came out, still irate. Her eyes caught Rummond and Belle immediately, but before she could speak or make some move toward them, Graham placed himself in her path and moved to steer her toward the foyer. Mr. Muis followed at Nurse Mills’ back.

“You had nothing to do with it,” Belle said, placing her hand on Rummond’s arm to stop him before they reached the ward doors. She looked up at him, her face drawn in worry. “You can’t blame yourself for what happened. _Any_ of it. It would be like blaming yourself for existing, and none of it was your fault.”

He looked to her sadly, but managed to give her a bit of a lopsided smile this time. “When did you learn to read minds?” he asked softly.

She smiled, straightening the lapels of his robe before pushing the door open. “I don’t have to read your mind. I know how the gears of it turn.”

Their own nurses as well as a good few from the rest of the hospital, along with most of the patients on the ward, crowded at the windows looking out over the drive. Lieutenant Hargreaves leaned to wave Belle and Rummond over.

“You’ll want to see this!” Hargreaves said with a grin, nudging Reyes next to him to shove over.

Belle took the space made for her, and she felt the warmth of Rummond at her back when he stood behind her. He watched over her shoulder as Graham escorted Nurse Mills to her automobile in full view of everyone.

Cheerful murmurs went up, and Belle was fairly surprised that there wasn’t more of a hurrah. Nurse Mills had been relieved of her job. Her cruelties were over - as far as Firefly Hill was concerned, at least. She would no longer be allowed to mistreat or downright cause harm to patients, nor would she treat the nurses as her servants any longer. Belle pushed aside her worries of how the next head nurse might turn out, hoping only that it might be better, and she leaned back into Rummond just a little, trying to enjoy their victory.


	128. A New Day

“I _missed_ it?” Ruby huffed in annoyance. “Of all the times to be ill. I never catch anything, and I miss Nurse Mills being knocked off her high horse for a piddly catarrh.”

“You said that Dr. Whale told you it bordered on bronchitis,” Belle reminded her.

“Yes, but he came to work and enjoyed the opportunity to fire Nurse Mills. I reserve the right to be resentful.”

“On the other hand, she _has_ been fired.”

The smile that Ruby gave was a rapturous one. “That does smooth it over a little.”

“You should have seen her,” Graham said with an amused look. “She didn’t allow Regina an inch without yanking it back. Not even in front of Dr. Whale.”

Though she was certainly proud of how she’d handled things, Belle shook her head. “You were in the hall.”

“That racket?” He chuckled. “Trust me, I could hear.”

“Oh, _tell_ me about it, at least?” Ruby hopped up to sit on the counter. 

The three of them had stepped aside in the blessedly unlocked supply closet to have a chat and fill Ruby in on the previous day while they waited. Dr. Whale had asked the nursing staff to come in particularly early this morning; the rest waited in the hospital foyer. 

“I’d have thought Dr. Whale would tell you?” Belle said. She was aware how holding out on a bit of gossip that she knew and Ruby didn’t, for once, had had her friend on pins and needles.

“He told me about what followed, but not about the entire argument in his office.” Ruby made a hurrying gesture. “Come on, tell me and I’ll tell you what I know.”

With the occasional addition from Graham, Belle regaled her with the previous day’s events - every word of it that she could remember, from hearing about Nurse Mills’ sister to watching her escorted off hospital grounds. Ruby was snickering and squirming happily by the end of it. 

“And I missed it all!” she said again as she slapped the top of her thigh.

“It’s a good thing you’ve a couple of someones to tell you all about it, then,” Belle said, nudging Ruby’s leg. “Now, what is this that you have to tell?”

Ruby pretended to pay a great deal of attention to the way her apron lay over her lap, smirking down at it. “Those calls he told you that he had to make? I know who they were to.”

“Who?” Belle and Graham asked at once.

“Other hospitals,” Ruby said, unable to hold back for too long. “He called around to an entire list of administrators he knows. Victor figures she’ll have to look for another position right away, so he was getting in ahead of her. He informed each and every one of them what she’d done here, and he asked that they put in calls of their own to spread the word. I don’t know what Nurse Mills is going to be doing after all of this, but I know exactly what she _won’t._ He’s had her blacklisted.”

Belle drew a sharp breath, turning to lean against the counter next to her. As far as she knew, there was very little else besides nursing that Nurse Mills had ever done. She would be lucky to get employment in a workhouse. It felt spiteful, but Belle allowed herself a smidge of satisfaction in that knowledge.

“Victor’s terribly upset about the entire thing,” Ruby went on. “About the things she did - what he knew about and what he didn’t. And about how she’d pulled the wool over his eyes for so long.”

“I would say that he shouldn’t blame himself, but…” For worry of insulting her friend’s fiancé, Belle trailed off.

“But he can and should, for how long it went on.” Ruby completed the thought for her. “He should have nipped that in the bud a good ways back. I love him, but there are times he _is_ a fool.”

There came a hesitant knock at the door, and they each looked at one another with startled expressions. Ruby slid quickly down from the counter before laughing uneasily at her own reaction. 

“We’re all here, aren’t we? Who on earth is that?” She gave Belle a playful poke in the ribs. “Your Captain?”

Belle shook her head. “Too early. He’s still in his bed. I don’t think he knows that the supply rooms are unlocked again, besides.”

Graham reached over to open it, and there stood Dr. Whale still in his coat and hat. The doctor looked a bit awkwardly around at them, met with three equally awkward faces. 

“Nurse Halloran said you’d gone to have a look over supply.” Dr. Whale coughed softly before asking, “Nurse French, might I speak with you?”

“Of course, doctor,” she said, trading a quick look with Ruby, who gave her the slightest of shrugs. She’d have been lying if she claimed even to herself that being taken aside to talk with the administrator after everything that had happened yesterday didn’t make her a bit anxious.

Graham and Ruby left along with her, though they stopped in the foyer with the rest of the nursing staff as she continued through. Belle walked in silence, following Dr. Whale back to his office. She paused at the door when he turned to switch on the light and remove his outdoor things, patting her hands on her apron front before going in after him.

“Please, have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk before he took his own.

Belle’s stomach went through much flip-flopping as she sat and waited for the doctor to get his desk arranged for the day and himself settled. It took a good measure of self-control to keep her hands folded in her lap without fidgeting.

“Have you ever thought about taking a head nurse position?” Dr. Whale asked as he slid his satchel beneath the desk.

“What?” Belle blurted in surprise. It took her a second of staring agape at him before she recovered herself. “No. No, I hadn’t, really.”

“Nurse Lucas says that you’re a hard worker,” he told her. “And I know for myself what a great deal of time you spend here at the hospital, what an advocate you are for your patients and their needs.”

“Well, I- I suppose I do, but I do it because I enjoy my job.” When there wasn’t a Nurse Mills working to trip her feet out from under her, anyway.

Dr. Whale nodded approvingly. “As far as I’ve heard, it wouldn’t be _that_ far outside of your duties now, as you take them. It would only involve a bit more paperwork, setting schedules for the nurses and orderlies. You would be keeping an eye on the nurses in all wards, rather than solely on the east wing.”

“Oh, is that _all?”_ she said with a still shocked laugh.

“Yes, all right, it is a good share more responsibility than you’ve had here thus far. However, I do have it on multiple instances of good authority that you’re up to the task. Would you be interested in taking over the position?”

Belle hesitated. “I…” she began, though it came out more breath than voice.

“I understand that you’ve a soft spot for the east ward, Nurse French,” the doctor said. “I wouldn’t ask you to remove yourself. In fact, you mightn’t have to cut down too much on time spent there, if you don’t wish it. As the typical duties of lower ranking nurses will no longer be on your shoulders-”

“Oh, no, no, I don’t mind the duties at all, I-”

“You may even have a bit more free time. And an office, as well as the salary increase, of course.”

“Of course,” she murmured.

“You are young, but you’re capable,” he said, and his lips set into a thin line. “If all I’ve seen from you in the face of Nurse Mills’ stint here is an indication.”

She drew herself up that much straighter in the chair before informing him, “It most certainly is.”

“Then you’ll accept?” Dr. Whale asked with a pleased and rather expectant smile.

Belle took a deep breath, and then she heard herself say, “Yes.”

“Wonderful!” The doctor stood and headed back around the desk, having clearly achieved his objective for their discussion. “I’ll make certain that you receive all of the necessary paperwork right away.”

She stood with him, moving toward the door as he held a hand out to shepherd her in that direction. “Doctor… may I have the day? And begin the new position tomorrow?”

“You may,” he agreed, reaching past to open the door for her. “Nurse Nolan can give advice on anything you might not be certain about, until you become accustomed to the ins and outs of it.”

“Nurse Mills fired Nurse Nolan,” Belle said as she stepped out into the corridor.

“She did. However, as head nurse, nursing and orderly staff hired do reside within your jurisdiction, now. As do firings,” he reminded her, and the way he said it made her feel as though he might expect any number of both actions. 

Bell smiled. She hadn’t gotten around to thinking of that part of her new position just yet. Having so much control was empowering and disconcerting all at once. She immediately decided that she would put in a call to the Nolan residence before returning to the ward. She only hoped that Mary Margaret would be willing to pick up her job again now that Nurse Mills had gone.

She beamed as she walked away from Dr. Whale’s office. _Head nurse._ Her first urge was to run to Rummond and tell him. She needed to see to the nurses gathered in the foyer, though.

Oh, God. She would need to give some manner of briefing. If she’d the time, she would have spent a week on going over what she wanted to address at her first briefing, but the need was rather immediate. They waited just a corridor and a turn of a corner away. Right now. Belle thought quickly.

Surely everyone - even those not on shift at the time - knew by now that Nurse Mills had been let go. That solved needing to go into any overlong explanation. A simple notification of the change would do. As would reversing a few of Nurse Mills’ more recent directives.

Dr. Whale followed her back to the foyer, though he stood a bit aside from the nurses and faced her rather than standing next to her. He gave her an encouraging nod.

The nurses there were chattering softly as they waited, and they quieted down straightaway when Belle went to the front desk and turned to face them. She took a deep breath and forced the words past her already fizzing nerves.

“As I’m sure everyone knows, Nurse Mills was fired yesterday,” she began.

Someone - she believed it might actually have been Astrid - said, “thank heavens,” and she did her best not to smile. Now was not the time for _quite_ as tickled a smile as she felt pulling at her cheeks. 

She went on. “Which means that the hospital is in need of a new head nurse.”

Ruby drew a long gasp. Belle caught her wide eyes and broad grin as her friend realized, and she could no longer hold back on her own. 

“Dr. Whale has been so kind as to offer the position to me,” she managed to say at last.

There was a murmur of joyful approval. She was relieved to note that there wasn’t a grumble among them - none that she could hear, at least.

“I’m only just getting started, and I have _many_ things to get in order, but for now, I would simply like to rescind the ‘policy changes’ made last week,” Belle told them. “If you’ve adjustments that you need reflected in your shift schedule or location - give me until tomorrow, if you possibly can, and then come to me about them. Ah, and the supply closets will remain open. No more chasing down one of the chosen few with a key. ...Is that all?” she whispered to herself, trying to think whether there was anything else important that needed amending right away. She looked to Ruby, who shrugged and shook her head. “All right, that’s it. Good morning, and I suppose you’re dismissed.”

Belle fielded so many messages of congratulations that it began choking her up a bit. When everyone dispersed, she checked her watch. Rummond likely wouldn’t wake for another half an hour or so. The ward lights were still off. She went down to have a look in and check, anyway. Sure enough, he was just where she expected.

She went back to the head nurse’s office - _her_ office! - and let herself in. It couldn’t have felt less like her own, though.

When she turned on the light, she found that there were papers, folders, and office supplies scattered everywhere. Drawers had been pulled from the desk and what could be overturned had been. Belle sighed. Apparently her second order of business would be to clean up this unholy mess.

She went to the short file cabinet that once sat on a table in the far corner, turning it back upright from where it had been tipped onto its side on the floor. She would need to ask Graham later to help her get the heavy, wooden thing back atop its table. After righting the desk drawers and fixing the bunched curtains, she set about picking up things from the floor.

Belle could tell a good bit about the everyday doldrums of being a head nurse from much of what she gathered. There were inventory reports dating back for a couple of months that didn’t appear to have been touched or noted upon, which went a long way toward explaining why the supply shipments hadn’t included some of the supplies that were dwindling. She placed those in a stack of things that needed more immediate seeing to. There were a number of papers and folders scattered beneath the short, black leather settee that sat next to the door. They had apparently been slung there in Nurse Mills’ parting tantrum. She had to get down on her hands and knees to fish them out. 

As she retrieved handfuls, she thought she might ask Lumiere and one of their groundskeepers from home to fetch a sofa down from the attic some evening and bring it in for her. She cringed to think what had happened upon the piece of furniture that sat there just now. There was a fine Chesterfield with a drop arm in storage, upholstered with a pretty blue Balmoral damask, that she imagined would fit nicely in the office. There were a number of framed examples of this and that which had landed in the attic over a number of years and decorating trends. Perhaps she could rifle through on her day off and find a carpet to warm the room up, as well. She would _make_ the office feel like hers, and she would banish every ounce of Nurse Mills’ spectre from it. 

Belle sat on the floor and separated all of the papers into stacks: trash, moderate importance, requiring emergency attention, things that required asking after, and as yet unsorted. She kept a weather eye on her lapel watch, and when the hour hand hit six, she picked her way through the papers and to the door.

She first turned right to go to the front desk, dusting the back of her skirts off on the way. Calling Mary Margaret wouldn’t take long at all.

Nurse Lind greeted her with a saucy grin when she rounded the corner. “Head nurse,” she said as though there were some innuendo to be found in it. “What can I do for you?”

Belle rolled her eyes. There would be a period of dealing with that from multiple sources, she expected. “I need to put a call in to Nurse Nolan.”

Mal had the line connecting by the time Belle stepped over to the telephone table. She gave Belle the handset and rolled her chair away again. After another ring, David answered.

“Is Mary Margaret there nearby?” she asked after a quick exchange of greetings.

“Sure, she’s right here,” he said.

Belle could hear Emma nattering happily and nonstop about something in the background. “Here, why don’t you tell your Daddy about it now?” Mary Margaret said before she came on the line. “Hello?”

“What do you think of returning to the hospital?” Belle asked. 

“I… think I don’t want to return to being Nurse Mills’ toady,” Mary Margaret responded warily. “I’m not going to go back to being complicit in her cruelties.”

“Oh, I get to tell you the good news, then.” Belle smiled as she filled the other nurse in on the events of the previous day and what few hours had passed of this one, relishing the sigh of relief and a squeak of glee that she heard from the other end of the line. 

“I’ll come back on one condition. I want to be on the ward. None of the second-in-command nonsense,” Mary Margaret said. “If I can handle patients instead of running around and doing errands, I’m happy to return.”

While Belle had no intention of asking her to resume that position, she didn’t remark on it. “If you want to go back on the ward, then back on the ward you’ll go. When can you come in?”

Once satisfied that Mary Margaret would be clocking in the very next morning, Belle left her to her family. That was one concern ticked off her mental list. Among other things, she planned to bring Astrid back onto the ward, as well, but that could wait until she had the schedules sorted out from the mess in the office.

Impatient, she went to peek in on the ward again. The lights had been turned on and, to her delight, Rummond sat up in his bed. He seemed to have only just awakened, but she simply couldn’t wait any longer. Belle went in before he had a chance to so much as put his feet on the floor.

“Rummond,” she didn’t quite whisper as she hurried in.

“Belle?” He blinked blearily up at her. “You’re in a bit early, aren’t you?”

“By around an hour,” she said, sitting on the edge of his bed with a little bounce that she calmed when the wobble of it made him utter a soft groan. “I’m sorry. Too early for so much cheer?”

“Perhaps a tad,” he admitted, but he smiled in return, anyway. “A holdover from yesterday’s cheer, I take it?”

“No,” she said, beaming at him. “An entirely different but related event.”

“Is it not too early for such suspense, love?” he asked, his eyes still squinting in the overhead lights.

Belle took in the picture of him - hair thoroughly sleep ruffled, his face soft with recent sleep, creases from his pillow case on one cheek. She decided to take pity and forgo the guessing game.

In her enthusiasm, it came out a little nearer a squeal than she’d have preferred. “I’m the new head nurse!”

Rummond’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Yes, that was my initial response, as well!” Belle laughed, her hands clapping over her mouth. 

He gave her _such_ a bright smile, reaching up to take her hands in his and holding tightly to them. “Well, he did at last shed the blinders, didn’t he? You _are_ the smartest choice!”

“Dr. Whale had all of the nurses come in absurdly early. I’ve been here for more than an hour already,” she said, trying to keep herself a bit more hushed. “When he arrived, he took me down to his office and asked if I would take over.”

“And it was a terribly difficult decision, I’m sure,” he teased. 

“Oh, agonizing.” She didn’t even attempt to school seriousness into her face. “I must have sounded ridiculous when he asked. I was so stunned, I could hardly put a sentence together.”

“You did manage to accept, though?”

“I did!” Belle nodded, squeezing his hands. “I officially take on the title tomorrow.”

“Head Nurse French,” he said with a grin. “I like the authority in that.”

“I’m only taking it until I can arrange things so that I can attend the medical college,” she told him, saying it aloud for herself as well as for Rummond. Since she’d remarked to him of her desire for it, he’d mentioned it a handful of times, as well. “I mean, it isn’t as though that will happen tomorrow. Or next year. I believe I can make things better here in the meantime, though.”

“I know you can,” Rummond encouraged. “I look forward to seeing you do it.”

“I won’t be taken off the ward. Dr. Whale assured me of that. I’ll be right here,” she promised. “And the head nurse’s office is just right there, if you happen to need me when I’m not in the room. No one will go traipsing in without permission, so you might even use it as a safe space, if you like. Or a private space…” Belle smiled, pinching the tip of her tongue between her front teeth. 

“That would be nice,” he agreed, and she thought she saw his ears pink a little. It didn’t deter him in the least. Rummond lifted her hands and bowed his head, pressing a warm kiss to each without the least attempt to hide his clear gesture of affection. _“Both_ insinuations.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _As I estimate it, there are about 15 chapters left, during which everything is going to tie up so that Rummond and Belle can get on the real path to their happy ending! We’re closing in on the end (well, considering how long the story has been)._
> 
> _If you have prompts for anything you would like to see before the story ends, please go ahead and send them now so that I can work them in!_
> 
> _Comment here or[send an ask](http://ishtarelisheba.tumblr.com/ask) on tumblr (I keep anon on for anyone who doesn’t have a blog or is shy). I do still have prompts included in future chapters, so if you haven’t seen yours yet, it’s probably on the schedule. I never throw a prompt away, but ask or remind me if you want to be sure._


	129. Everyone You Meet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt - _anonymousnerdgirl said: Don't hate me, but I have another prompt. I think Rum's going to need another talk with Archie. A.) He needs congratulations for defending his honor. And B.) There needs to be discussion about why Nurse Mills was so hellbent on blaming Rummond for her sister. If Zelena was a victim then her insanity was the fault of someone else. (Altough clearly the two rotten apples fixated on Gold just in different ways.)_

He watched out the window while the doctor settled behind the desk. There was no gathered snow to speak of, and not so much as a lacing of ice around the window panes. The winter no longer seemed as unforgiving as it had only a handful of weeks before. It seemed that spring might actually and eventually arrive. 

“How are you feeling after the affray with Nurse Mills?” Dr. Hopper asked before Rummond realized he was ready to begin. “I’d like to begin there, if you’re all right with it.”

Rummond took a handkerchief from his pocket and unwrapped the watch from it. Someone in the north wing had sent it along to him with one of the ward’s nurses. All it needed was a bent minute hand repaired. It would only take a few moments, but he’d run out of repair work. All of the watches he’d been asked to fix had been seen to and returned, and unless there happened to come an influx of newly broken ones, he had only one left in his drawer to work on.

“I feel…” He took a breath and blew it slowly out, ending it with a hum as he made a quick evaluation of himself. “Better than I did before it.”

“Do you have any thoughts regarding why that might be?”

“Well, Nurse Mills being gone has quite a bit to do with it, I imagine.” He chuckled softly. “A few reasons, though, I suppose.”

“Oh?” the doctor said, encouraging him on. “I would like to hear about them, if you feel comfortable discussing it.”

Looking down at the pocketwatch, Rummond turned it face up. He had been turning those reasons over in his thoughts contentedly for days.

“Belle believed me,” he told the doctor, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She took my side in the entire mess. Defended me before _two_ superiors.”

Dr. Hopper knew enough of his patient’s past to understand just why it had made such an impression. “That’s meaningful for you.”

“Very,” the Captain said simply, though his smile grew and the span of it spoke far more. “I, ah- I believe I got a grasp on something, as well. Something we’ve gone ’round in here a few times.”

“Oh, that could be a number of things,” the doctor said with a grin.

Rummond’s eyebrows rose, and he tilted his head in agreement. “A fair statement, that.”

“What was it, then?” Dr. Hopper nudged him along, curious what the Captain was leading into.

“Nurse Mills was going on and on. Called me a coward more than once,” he said as he carefully unscrewed the watch’s bezel and set it aside. “Toward the end of it, she remarked how I should have been executed as a traitor.”

“Captain,” Dr. Hopper said before his patient continued, feeling stricken by just the hearing of it. “I’m sorry you had to hear something so disgraceful from someone who was _meant_ to look after your wellbeing.”

“It didn’t bother me.” Rummond gave a short, dismissive gesture, but he took it back a second later. “No. No - it bothered me. It did hurt in the moment. That’s the thing, though. I thought about it when she spat it at me. Who was _she_ to condemn me? Standing up in that office, facing the accusations she slung… I wasn’t cowering. I told her I’m no traitor, and not a coward, either.”

The doctor perked up and pushed his spectacles higher on his nose. A bright smile crossed his face as he took in what his patient had told him. “Captain Gold!”

Rummond couldn’t help smiling at the doctor’s exclamation. “I thought you might appreciate knowing it, much as we had words over that.”

“You thought correctly. I’m happy for you, that you were able to express it,” Dr. Hopper told him. “And I daresay I’m quite proud of you, as well! You said it right to her face?”

“Looking her in the eye,” he confirmed with a nod. A warmth spread through his chest, that the doctor praised him for it. He’d known that Dr. Hopper would want to hear what he had said, but he hadn’t expected the pride in _himself_ that struck him.

“How did Nurse Mills respond?”

“It didn’t slow her down, but nothing was going to, at that point.” Rummond shrugged, tilting the watch in the light so that he could see how badly the hand was bent. “She went on insisting I was at fault, even with it proven that her sister had come up with the entire business on her own. Three people doing their best to get across to her that the tale she’d been fed wasn’t true, and she would _not_ hear it.”

“Hm,” the doctor hummed shortly. He didn’t appear surprised. “Far be it from me to defend Nurse Mills in _any_ of her wrongdoing, but perhaps it was important to her that her sister was blameless.”

Rummond fished from one of the tool case pockets a sliver of paper with a slim triangle cut out he’d made to serve as a watch face protector. He slid it into place around the hands. “So important that she couldn’t see past it to recognize so much proof?”

“I imagine no amount of proof less than the confession right from her sister’s mouth would have mattered,” Dr. Hopper said.

Rummond frowned, glancing up at the doctor. “And any chance of that went with the sister.”

Nurse Mills might well believe her sister’s lies for the rest of her life, then. Rummond fought a shudder. He was gladder than ever that she had been relieved of her position at the hospital. 

“Dr. Whale did share the letters with me,” Dr. Hopper said with a shake of his head. “He requested Ms. Mills’ file from the hospital that she resided in, as well, and asked that I have a look.”

“What are your thoughts on the wreck of it?” Rummond asked.

Dr. Hopper paused. It wasn’t done, sharing information on patients. However, Captain Gold had been significantly affected by the goings on in this case - he was entitled to his curiosity - and Ms. Mills had never been his own patient. While he was rather certain of his thoughts after going through the evidence, he supposed it was technically conjecture.

“From all I was able to gather, she was considerably ill. Without question ill enough to necessitate her commitment. Though, that doesn’t absolve her of wrongdoing,” the doctor was careful to clarify. “Her own doctor’s evaluation of her condition made it clear that she knew right from wrong. Her illness didn’t compromise her judgment there. Ms. Mills was well aware that she lied to her sister, and that she was maligning you. I realize that isn’t much comfort in the situation.”

“Why would this woman _do_ such a thing?” Now that the mystery of Nurse Mills’ particular hatred of him had been solved, it was wondering why her sister had set sights on _him_ that confused Rummond more than anything else. “Why come up with dozens of forged letters, tell people of a romance that never existed? Why create this terrible fiction of a dead child, for God’s sake?”

“I found no evidence of delusional thinking. Her commitment seemed based on a series of rages that she experienced.” The doctor sighed, folding his hands on top of his patient’s file sitting open on the desk. “I fully believe that it was an attempt to gain attention that got carried away.”

Rummond pulled the hand lifter from its pocket and removed the watch hands, hesitating before he released them all on the handkerchief in front of him. “All of that for attention, though?”

“Needing attention from others isn’t a terrible thing. From birth, all people require attention and lovingkindness given to thrive. There are theories that depriving infants of attention and touch can cause permanent damage to both psychological and physiological health throughout their lives, if they survive the neglect.” Dr. Hopper sat back in his chair. He’d gone slightly to left of topic, and he veered back. “My point is, it’s only when the demand for it is taken to a destructive degree that it grows into a problem. It becomes equally unhealthy on the opposite end of the spectrum, and can harm people around the person going to such lengths in demand of it. It this case, it harmed you, and it harmed Nurse French. And though it in no way absolves her, it harmed Nurse Mills, as well.”

The doctor’s little lesson made Rummond glad that he’d ‘coddled’ Neal - to use one of Milah’s accusations - as much as he could’ve when his son was an infant. He didn’t want to consider what might have happened to Neal had he gone along with her ideas that holding a baby spoiled it.

He took the minute hand and gave it a look. It was bent just enough to affect the watch’s timekeeping, leaving a slight scrape in the face in its wake. Likely the fault of a careless repairman.

“Nurse Mills saw none of it? Living in the same house as they did?” he asked, though it was more musing than actual curiosity, since it was apparent that she hadn’t.

“I feel that a great deal of Nurse Mills’ handling of the situation, both before and after being presented with proof, had to do with feelings of guilt,” the doctor said, seeming thoughtful, himself. “For some reason that I’m certain would make more sense were I privy to the entire story between them, Nurse Mills and her sister needed to see Ms. Mills herself as a victim of something terrible rather than acting in deception. And, as you were the object in that deception, Nurse Mills placed focus on you just as her sister had, though out of hate and resentment instead of her sister’s overbearing ardor. With you to blame, I suspect that she found she didn’t have to blame her sister for anything at all.”

Rummond’s frown deepened at the corners. He shook his head as he straightened out the watch hand, taking care not to leave a mark in the delicate sliver of metal. The convolution of the whole situation made his head hurt. “I’m not certain that I can make good sense from half of this.”

“It _is_ somewhat tangled,” Dr. Hopper granted. “I believe what it boils down to is that no one had extended Ms. Mills sufficient care for a great deal of time, and she decided to go to socially violent means to acquire it. She likely should have been in hospital for a good while before she was. It all contributed to her being able to do the things she did, but does not excuse them. Nurse Mills’ contributions of neglect until the damage had been done, and not exercising a healthy dose of doubt in her sister’s lies made matters all the worse. Does that untangle it a bit?”

“A bit,” Rummond muttered. “Doesn’t make me inclined to forgive either of them.”

“You are well within your rights to hold onto hard feelings,” the doctor assured him with a sympathetic smile. “Perhaps Nurse Mills should serve as a reminder than we should all endeavor to be kind to others. For many reasons.”

While Dr. Hopper uncapped his pen and made a few notes, Rummond fiddled quietly with the watch hands. Setting the hands on their pin, he used a tweezer to press them back into place, and he shined up both sides of the crystal before replacing the bezel. The pocketwatch ticked along just perfectly after he’d given it a wind. He tucked it into his robe pocket for delivering back to its owner, and that was that.

“We’ve half the session left, still,” the doctor said after a few minutes. “What would you like to talk about? Anything in particular?”

Rummond turned his head to look out on the bare tree at the doctor’s office window. There _was_ something, though it wasn’t so much a case of wanting to discuss it as knowing that they needed to. His stomach gave a lurch as he worked up the nerve. He wished now that he’d gone more slowly in repairing the watch, feeling the need for something to occupy his hands. 

“Germany,” he said, looking up at the doctor even as his fingers pinched a crease in the fabric of his robe. “I want to talk about Germany.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I apologize for the short-ish chapter. Please be on the lookout for a supplemental chapter around the middle of next week.)


	130. A Hard Slog Through

The doctor’s words were carefully chosen and gentle. “You’re ready to revisit what happened in the forest?”

“I believe I have to,” Rummond said softly. He smoothed the wrinkle he’d created in his robe and his fingers began work on another next to it.

“Where do you wish to start, then?” Dr. Hopper asked. 

“At the beginning. In the air.” He felt himself sink into the sofa a little. “Might as well.”

Without drawing attention to what he did, the doctor brought his notepad in front of him and opened to a clean page. “When you’re ready, Captain.”

Captain Gold didn’t speak for a good while, seeming as though he were sorting himself out, and Dr. Hopper went over the rest of his morning appointments in his head. There was nothing terribly urgent that couldn’t be pushed back a bit if need be.

“We were on our way out to Dresden,” Rummond began, eyes closed and doing his level best to keep his breathing even, as Belle had taught him. He could feel his nerves going on end. “Everything had gone smoothly as could be. It was perfect weather for a quick and quiet mission. We’d expected to be in and out, really. We were to drop a morning hate of grass-cutters and be home for lunch. We’d been in German territory more’n half an hour, and under good cloud cover, observing all the bits of stealth we’d learned. The Germans were waiting for something to pop up, and there we were. I remember- I remember Kendrick screaming out, ‘Jerry up!’ at my right.”

Dr. Hopper took quick and mostly blind shorthand as his patient spoke, so that he could later fill in the notes from the first time he’d heard the recounting. There were details there that he knew Captain Gold hadn’t managed to give him before. 

“We’d not even gotten close to our target when they fired on us. We had been in plenty of dogfights, and plenty often, but never caught by surprise as they did.” Rummond forced himself to open his eyes, staring at the plain front of the doctor’s desk in an effort both to keep from becoming lost and from having to look the doctor in the face. “It was too much too fast. I was having trouble seeing, I got so much spray-back from the oil in the engine, and I know it must have been the same for my boys. The attack came up too close, behind and on our right, and they knew they had us at a disadvantage. They knew damn well the engines gyroscope and make it a fight to turn left. They knew, and they used it.”

He used his nails to score over the crease in his robe. “We had two of them knocked out of the air right away. They had us outnumbered, but we were doing well evening it out. I don’t know what happened- I _still_ don’t know what-” Rummond ducked his head. He felt heavy and slow, and it made him reel a bit.

“Captain,” Dr. Hopper said, deliberately interrupting the flow of his patient’s story when he saw the distress developing in his expression. “Give yourself a moment.”

Rummond pulled in a pair of deep breaths, holding them for a half dozen heartbeats before releasing them. He looked right, to Neal’s drawing where it hung on the office wall.

“Three of my squadron - three of my boys were gone all at once. Eldridge, McCrory, Ellis… Just gone. Blown away. One of the Germans went on a suicide run and hit one of my squadron, killed himself and my boy, Honeysett, too. I saw debris kill three more. A wing hit Bowen’s bomb rack. Another crashed through Fuller. Something hit Stacy’s propeller and he went down with no chance to do a thing about it.” He clenched his eyes shut. What came next was too vivid, the blood always, _always_ too bright in the sunlight. “Piece of Fuller’s fuselage took off Thacker’s upper wings and took his- _him_ with them.”

Dr. Hopper waited until he was certain that Captain Gold had stopped. “None of it was your fault, Captain. The dogfight, your squadron. You couldn’t have known. The other pilots - the Germans - they were out hunting for Allied fighters. You remarked upon that, yourself.”

Rummond’s head shook ever so slightly, his eyes fixed but unfocused on the front of the doctor’s desk. “I should have _seen.”_

“If they were hiding so well that you saw no sign at all of them, that not a single of your pilots saw a sign of their presence, then how could you have any fault in that?” Dr. Hopper asked. “Do you place blame on any of the members of your squadron for not seeing them before they attacked?”

“No,” Rummond said as though even the thought of it were patently absurd, looking up at the doctor. “They weren’t to know. The Germans came from behind. They- they were bound to have been flying lower. Beneath us…”

“They came from beneath you?” the doctor nudged when his patient frowned and trailed off.

“Because we were topped out at altitude. They were hiding low in the clouds we were flying above.” His brow drew as he realized, remembering how the enemy aeroplanes had come _up,_ not dropping on them. “We weren’t to know they were waiting below us.”

Dr. Hopper gave the Captain a moment to allow the understanding to sink in. Captain Gold appeared taken aback with the flash of comprehension. “Will you go on with your recollections?” he asked at length.

“We, ah- we took the rest down, what was left of us. Our planes had too much, though. There were five of us parachuted out. Kendrick, Collingwood, Yates, Wright, and myself. Yates didn’t make it,” Rummond murmured, his eyes shifting downward, as though he might still see the boy where they’d walked out to find him. “There was a farmer - a spy for our side - a day’s walk from where we went down. I headed us off in that direction. A great stretch of heavy forest lay between. We went for it, for the cover, walking through fields to keep off the watched roads. We were hardly on our way, and Collingwood walked onto a mine.” He cringed at the memory of feeling the blast and then the blood, the thumb and forefinger of his right hand rubbing together.

“The last time you spoke with me about this, you mentioned that you’d had no reports of mines in the area,” Dr. Hopper said.

“We hadn’t, no,” Rummond said. “But I should have had some idea.”

“Why would you, though? When there’d been none reported?”

“I should have seen the disturbance in the ground, taken precautions no matter what in such an open space.”

“Great efforts are taken to ensure that mines are well-hidden,” the doctor reminded him. “The purpose is to lay them where they won’t be seen until it’s too late, if ever.”

“Of course,” Rummond said. “What use are they if anyone can simply see them from a ways… off… Ah. I take your point,” he muttered a bit begrudgingly.

“By very nature of the way mines are placed and camouflaged, you couldn’t have predicted that one of your squadron would walk into one. Am I wrong?” Dr. Hopper pushed carefully.

“No, you-” He noticed how his hand fidgeted, and he made himself stop. “I suppose you aren’t wrong.”

“Go on, if you still feel comfortable with it,” the doctor encouraged.

Rummond cleared his throat, calming himself with a deep, slow breath before he continued. “We made it to the forest, the three of us. We were quiet - _so_ quiet… Around a mile in, we happened across a group of half a dozen Austrian soldiers camped. We never saw any sign of others around, and when we saw the soldiers themselves, we were too near to go backward or forward either.” His hands curled into anxious fists against his thighs as the fear came back far too clearly. “I can still hear Wright asking me what to do. One of the other soldiers heard, but they’d left their guns by the side while they ate. I pulled my bayonet and flew at them before my last boys could go in. Knifed five of them one after another, and I still don’t know how. They should easily have gotten me.”

Dr. Hopper looked up, his pen hovering over the paper. What Captain Gold described - he recalled reading of a class of Norse warriors called _berserkers_ that went into a state perhaps akin to what his patient reported. When the symptoms of shell shock had became better-known, he’d considered some parallel with the hallmark behaviors of the two states. He didn’t impart such an anecdote, though. It would do no good to give his patient such a label to dwell upon. 

“Another came at my back and Wright put him right down. The last soldier, I didn’t get to him before he reached his gun. It jammed, and I got him. I got him-” A wave of nausea rolled over Rummond, and he pulled in another deep breath, trying to will it away. “I put my knife through his eye,” he said, fighting the urge to retch. The strain made itself obvious in his voice. “The blade stuck fast. I left it there in his head. There was one off in the trees, and he came back shooting. I flinched with the shot that killed Wright. He got me in the leg after. He shot Kendrick down before I could get to my sidearm. I got him, then, but they were all _gone_ …”

Rummond’s breath hitched and he leaned forward, raking his hands savagely back through his hair. Tears burned his eyes as they welled up and squeezed themselves out through eyelids screwed shut tight against them.

Dr. Hopper pushed his chair back as quietly as he could. Taking his notepad, he turned the armchair on the other side of his desk to face his patient and sat there, placing himself nearer. “Captain?” he asked gently. “Do you need me to call Nurse French in? Would it help?”

“You needn’t bother her. I’m all right,” he said hoarsely, brushing the wetness away from his face with the heels of his hands. It did very little to help, followed as his tears were by more. “They were boys. The soldiers. Young as I was when I first ran to join myself up. Children. My boys weren’t much more than children themselves. The oldest were in their twenties.”

“The Austrian soldiers being there was not your fault, Captain,” the doctor told him. “The soldier killing Wright and Kendrick - responsibility for their deaths rests squarely on the shoulders of the man who pulled the trigger. That was not your fault, either.”

“No?” Rummond made a sound that was far more a yelp of pain than the wry laugh it was meant to be. “Sure as hell still feels that it was.”

Of it all, Dr. Hopper understood that the events that had transpired in the forest were what Captain Gold blamed himself most for. He was at a loss for a moment. The guilt over that final, violent encounter was _so_ deeply entrenched. After some considering, he finally landed upon something that he thought might just get through.

“Why did you go after the soldiers when they first caught sight of you?”

Rummond gave the doctor a questioning look. “Because otherwise they’d’ve come after us.”

“Yes, but why did _you_ attack with your bayonet?”

“To protect my boys!” he snapped, feeling as though it should be obvious.

Dr. Hopper smiled a bit. “Precisely.”

A bewildered frown carved itself into Rummond’s features.

“Captain Gold, your first instinct was to protect your squadron,” the doctor attempted to clarify for him. “Pardon my bluntness, but you fought like hell for them because you knew what those soldiers would do.”

He had to press his lips together to keep them from trembling. “They were slaughtered anyway. Nothing I did mattered.”

“You fought.”

“Of course I fought! They were my boys.”

“And they saw you fighting for them.”

Captain Gold looked down at his lap. He spoke so softly that Dr. Hopper had to concentrate to hear. “Kendrick. Honeysett. McCrory. Wright. Bowen. Collingwood. Ellis. Yates. Thacker. Fuller. Stacy. Eldridge. I remember _every face,_ as if it were seared into me. I remember what they looked like when they laughed, and the expressions on their faces when they died. I wonder so often what they might be doing now, if I’d been able to save them. I _miss_ them.”

The doctor sighed, feeling helpless in the face of his patient’s grief. “Captain…”

“It was Kendrick started off calling me ‘Papa,’ you know,” Rummond said, staring at his hands. “And the rest took it up after him. They were mine, and they were good boys, every single one.”

“I’m certain that they were, Captain Gold.” Dr. Hopper wondered if it might help him in any way to visit the graves of his squadron, or whether it might hurt him further. He did note, however, how the Captain’s stammer while speaking about emotionally fraught subjects had all but deserted him. 

“It was on me to protect them, and I couldn’t manage it.”

“You protected them as fiercely as you could. What you’ve just told me is a full testament to that. You fought to protect your boys and yourself ” 

Rummond made a pained scoffing sound. “Perhaps if I hadn’t been protecting myself so thoroughly, I’d have had more success at protecting them.”

The doctor hesitated, giving him a look of concern. “Earlier you told me that you’d expressed to everyone in Dr. Whale’s office that you aren’t a coward.”

“I suppose I don’t have to be a coward to still have done the wrong thing.” He looked over at the tool case, straightening it where it lay on the sofa cushion.

“Perhaps a fortnight ago, we discussed during one of our sessions your ex-wife’s attempt at taking your son and you remarked that you had to fight for Neal and Nurse French,” Dr. Hopper said, waiting a moment as he gauged his patient’s reaction. The Captain seemed to be listening. _”Your_ life was worth fighting for, as well, Captain.”

“That’s very different. The situations - entirely different.”

“In Germany, you were fighting for your squadron and for your life. That is equally as noble as fighting to keep your son out of the hands of people who would doubtlessly harm him again. You fought for your son and you won. It’s only that in the case of your squadron, there _was_ no way for you to save everyone.”

“I failed. Far more simply said.”

“But you didn’t fail. You lived,” the doctor told him. “Living through what you have? Surviving the war and all that’s come after? If anything, I would call that a victory.”

Rummond puffed out a breath between his teeth, but he listened. He wanted to believe what the doctor told him. It was a matter of letting in such belief past the pain he’d been steeped in, and he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to manage that.

“If there is anything I’ve learned from counseling servicemen, it is that one may fight with every ounce of strength one has and still be beaten. It doesn’t mean that you’ve failed, or that you deserved it in any way. And it certainly doesn’t mean that you’re a coward,” Dr. Hopper assured him firmly. “As we’ve discussed before, from everything I’ve learned of your situation I don’t see cowardice _anywhere_ in your actions. I see a man who endured terrible injuries, and who was wrongly blamed so often that others’ opinions warped how you saw yourself. It’s frighteningly common among patients with shell shock, and society’s near fanatical reinforcement of that belief is one of the reasons it is so difficult to alter the way patients think of themselves.”

Rummond ran one thumbnail over the other, watching how the color fled and then returned to the flesh beneath. “I _am_ glad that I survived,” he confessed after a good few minutes. “If I hadn’t, I’m not certain what might have happened to Neal by now. I’d never have known Belle, either. I would rather be here for them than the alternative.”

“I hope that you know how pleased I am to hear you say that,” Dr. Hopper said, leaning his forearms on his knees as he tried to get his patient to look at him. “Do you understand, though, Captain, that it wasn’t your fault? Not the defeat in the dogfight. Not the mine. Not the fight in the forest. None of it was.”

It took Rummond a few moments, but he nodded. He did understand it, the way the doctor talked through it with him. He could see that, with the situation as it had been, there was no other way the events of that day could have happened differently. He’d worked with the knowledge and training he had, done everything that he possibly could. On a purely thoughtful level, he did understand. In his guts, though, it still _felt_ as though he should have been able to do more.

“I do. I understand,” he said, his voice thin and weary. “That doesn’t mean I don’t still feel the guilt of it. I can’t see how I ever couldn’t.”

“Guilt is an obstinate thing,” the doctor counseled. “It often goes where it has no purpose and refuses to be budged. Sometimes all that can be done is to remember that the guilt you’re feeling doesn’t mean you’ve done anything wrong. It’s your mind’s way of wishing that you could change what happened after such a traumatic situation.”

One of Rummond’s eyebrows twitched in response to the explanation. “Knowing that doesn’t make it disappear.”

“No,” Dr. Hopper agreed. “And I’m sorry that I can’t help more with that.”

Rummond shrugged. “Just as well. It doesn’t bring them back, though, does it?” he said sadly. “It may not be my fault, what happened. Not _per se._ But every boy in the air and in that forest died because of a single, horrific day.”

“The particular Austrian boy - you’ve spoken about him before. He’s the one whom you have nightmares about, isn’t he?” the doctor asked. “He’s the one in your hallucinations?”

“The one I got in the eye with my bayonet.” Rummond nodded, pulling an uncomfortable face. “He is. More than any of the others. Though they turned up oftimes, as well.”

“You say that in the past tense,” Dr. Hopper pointed out. “‘Turned.’ You no longer see him? Or any of them?”

He had to take a moment to think. When _was_ the last time? “Not for some time, now,” 

“Do you find that you still have hallucinations at all? I ask because you haven’t mentioned them in a while.”

“The odd one. None too invasive for a month or so, now,” he said with a touch of surprise. “I suppose I should only be thankful they aren’t the sort that take my mind along with them.”

“You never had too many of quite such severity, did you?” the doctor asked.

“The one in your office was the worst of them.” Rummond cringed at the memory of coming back to himself on the floor of the office. “No, only rarely.”

“Like the nightmares we’ve discussed, you may always have mild hallucinations of the sort,” Dr. Hopper advised.

Rummond gave a grumbling hum. “I figured as much.”

“As long as they’re manageable, not causing trouble for you, and you’re doing well otherwise, they’re no reason to worry overmuch.”

“A stray bloodstain here or there won’t hurt me, aye.”

“Is that what surfaces?”

“Blood, the smell of gunfire and forest,” he admitted. “Those are the most common. No boys of either side standing over me and bleeding, anymore.”

“So they don’t plague you badly enough to derail your routine?” the doctor asked, to make certain.

Rummond shook his head. “I go on about my business and they fade.”

“Good,” Dr. Hopper said, and Rummond thought that the smile the doctor gave him might have been a relieved one. “Good. I’m glad. How do you feel just now?”

“I’m not sure.” He ran a hand over his mouth. “Tired?”

“Do you feel all right to return to the ward?”

Rummond took a moment to take stock of himself, but he finally nodded. “Nothing terribly out of place.”

“I’m not hurrying you,” the doctor reassured. “If you feel that you need to stay for a bit, you’re welcome to.”

He looked over at the table clock, and he frowned. “I went well into someone else’s time.”

“You did because I kept you,” Dr. Hopper said, heading him off before he ran with that worry.

Rummond reached for his cane and then the case of tools next to him. “I’m fine for going back.”

Dr. Hopper rose and walked to the door with him. “I’ll see you on Monday morning, then, if you’ve no need of me first. Have a good weekend, Captain.”

“And you, doctor,” he said as he left the office. He received a moment of awkward and irritated eye contact from Jezek, who waited on the bench in the corridor, before he began making his way toward the east wing again.

“You’ve gotten a parcel in the post,” Lieutenant Hargreaves told him when he stepped onto the ward, gesturing to his bunk. “Muis left it just there.”

Rummond put his cane by the table and took the package. It was soft even through the layers of brown paper and fairly big - a bit larger than his two hands laid side by side. A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth in spite of how exhausted and raw he felt after his appointment. He knew what it was when he saw the return address. Placing it on the shelf beneath his bedside table, he set the box of watch parts on top before shrugging out of his robe and climbing back into his bunk.


	131. Set Wide the Window

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt - _anonymousnerdgirl said: Prompt/question: Is Belle going to hang the picture from Rummond in the new office?]_
> 
> (And a reminder just in case anyone missed it - there was [an extra mid-week chapter this week](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2730107/chapters/23801853).)

Belle felt a little awkward, bringing so much into the office, but no one remarked upon it. Over the course of the week, she had banished the feeling of dread from the one-window room and made it welcoming. She didn’t anticipate spending a great deal of leisure time there, but paperwork and such would keep her for some period of time each day, so it seemed important that she make it a comfortable place to be.

She’d switched out her desk set at home for an older one and took the slightly newer, gilt bronze set in to her office. At her request, Lumiere made arrangements to bring the Chesterfield in, and behind its spot in the attic she’d found the pretty, blue and cream Iranian carpet that her mother had received from her own grandparents as a wedding gift. Her father had years ago had it rolled up and stored, declaring it too strong a reminder. She was glad to have a place to put it, and she had a feeling that her mother would rather enthusiastically approve. The previous day, Belle took down the dusty curtains and replaced them with a heavy set over a pair of sheer ones - both of which could be pulled safely closed when she required - and Mal had come out to help her bring in an armload of framed art just this morning.

The day was overcast, but between the light overhead and the desk lamp, she had her office looking quite sunny by the time there came a knock at the door. Hands full and unable to go over and open it herself, she called for her visitor to come in.

“Ah, _this_ looks like you,” Rummond said as he stepped inside.

Belle beamed down at him. “A bit less gloom, hm?”

She hadn’t allowed in anyone at all until she’d gotten the unholy mess that Nurse Mills left behind cleared up. Rummond had been the first to receive an invitation after the office became hers. She had invited him in for a look the day after, and it hardly felt like the same room, now.

He closed the door after him, looking around. “Well, to be fair, the gloom owed to its previous occupant rather than the furnishings.”

“I’ve only replaced the sofa. The desk and chair are nice, as is the rest, really.” She wrinkled her nose. “I was a tad leery of the cushions.”

He snorted a laugh, then pulled a face of his own as he caught her meaning. “…Ah. I would be, as well.”

Rummond had come in to find her standing on the sofa in her stocking feet, wiping down the wall above it with a damp cloth. She had the office looking and smelling like something far too pleasant to exist in a hospital. He spotted a handful of Mrs. Potts’ sachets in a box on the desk and wondered how many had already been hidden around.

“Hand me that picture, there?” Belle asked, pointing to the frame that leaned against the end of the sofa nearer him. She dropped her cloth into the basin sitting on a little turtle-top table at the other end.

He picked up the picture and turned it around. It was the drawing he’d given her for Christmas - the heart with roses clustered ’round. “You’re hanging it here?”

“I am,” she said as he moved closer to hand it to her. 

Rummond smiled up at her, so tickled and proud that she’d decided to place her present where it could be seen that he could hardly stand it. 

“I know it’s meant for my clinic. Eventually,” she said, the tip of her tongue sticking out in concentration as she caught the wire on the nail in just the right place. “In the meantime, it’ll live right here. In my office.”

He didn’t miss the way she claimed it as her own. “Where everyone will see?”

“Precisely.” She stepped carefully in the middle cushion, bending down and placing her hands on his shoulders. Leaning close, she dropped a brief kiss on his lips. “Where _everyone_ who comes in will see.”

He missed the weight of Belle’s hands when she turned back to straighten the frame. Rummond reached out for her skirts, drawing the soft, freshly ironed blue cotton between his fingers all the way to the hem. His hand slipped beneath, past her warm petticoats, until he touched her calf. Looking up to check her reaction, he caught an open smile crossing her face.

Belle’s body responded to his touch, to the way his hand stroked slowly up her leg, to his fingertips running along the top of her stocking at the back of her thigh, with a rush of warmth across her skin and a wave of electricity that seemed to travel along every nerve in her body. She’d have dearly liked to jump at the chance for what he silently suggested. A soft, pleased sound escaped her. The timing, unfortunately, was a bit wrong.

“Here, help me down?” she asked, holding her hands out for his.

His hand moved from beneath her skirts to give her both, providing balance as she hopped down. She held onto them, pressing herself close and tilting her head back in request of a kiss. He bowed his head to meet her, catching her lower lip between his own and sucking gently at it once, then again. It sent the most enjoyable flash of want down through her belly, and _oh,_ sometimes human physiology was absolutely ridiculous.

“Rum, I want to…” She sighed, leaning back to look at him.

“But you’re busy?” There was a small smile on his lips and not an ounce of resentment in his voice. She had yet to become accustomed to the way he so readily accepted it when she declined.

“No. Well, nothing immediate. I’ve all of my morning tasks seen to-” Belle shook her head. “That isn’t it, though.”

It _would_ have been easy, putting it off on some duty or other rather than explaining what time it was. She felt that wasn’t quite fair, though, as careful as they had been with one another.

“It’s the one bothersome point in a month that I can’t. So, while I very much want to…” She let her words hang in the air and hoped that he caught her meaning.

He nodded, apparently unfazed. “Wait a few days?”

One of his hands slipped from hers, moving to the small of her back to rub with short, firm motions. It felt lovely and did a fine job of soothing the tense muscles there.

“A week or so. Trust me, you’ll know when.” She grinned, going up on her toes for another quick kiss. He smiled, and she swung the hand that she still held toward the sofa. “I can sit for a while, though, if you want.”

“I do,” he said, following when she tugged him down to sit with her.

Rummond sat next to the arm, where she’d left room for him, and brought her legs over into his lap. He petted along her shins and down over her feet while she wiggled her toes happily. After a little while, she tucked in close to his side.

“I’m having a hard time getting past how wonderful it is to no longer need worry about someone screaming at me over busy work,” she said, shifting her legs farther over his lap and snugging herself more tightly against him. 

“Hm, you’d be the screamer, now,” he teased as he ran a finger down her instep.

Her toes curled involuntarily at the tickle. “Well, I haven’t yet.” She smirked up at him. “But only because we’ve not had the privacy.”

Her remark surprised a belly laugh out of him before he could so much as think to stop it. The feeling kept hold of him so that it took a moment before he recovered enough to put on an unsuccessful look of faux scandal and gasp, “Belle!”

Belle smiled so hard that her cheeks hurt. It was the first time she’d gotten such a peal of laughter out of him, and it thrilled her from fingertips to the ends of her toes to have made him laugh so.

“Just you wait,” she told him. “The first time I get you alone and without a hundred ears within eavesdropping distance-”

“Nurse French, for shame,” he said, his smile broad and bright as he leaned his face near hers. “Propriety! Such insinuations!”

“Who’s insinuating?” Belle pinched her lower lip between her teeth, shaking with a smothered giggle.

He clucked his tongue. “Tsk. I may blush.”

“Good,” she said with a grin. “I like it very much when you blush.”

His nose brushed her cheek, and she turned her head to nuzzle into him. Kisses were, at least, something that she could indulge in. She pressed a lingering one at the corner of his mouth, and he parted his lips, waiting for her. She took her time, plucking kisses from him and enjoying having him so close, until her heart thumped and she was frustrated all over again.

“No, I’ll not scream at them,” she said when the feeling of silliness and innuendo had passed. “Or I’ll do my best not to.”

He hummed. “Nurse Boyd surely tries one’s patience, though.”

“There’s a pair of orderlies who do, as well.” Belle grimaced at the thought of Gardner and Quinn.

“They all know you’ll be a better head nurse than the last, love,” Rummond told her. “Worlds better.”

“I hope so.” She played with the cuff of his robe, considering. “I want to get Astrid back. She was always so good with the east ward. And I want to rid the hospital of those two orderlies. I believe the rest that did Nurse Mills’ bidding will be fine, once the bad apples are gone, but they’re just poisoning the whole bunch. I’m going to be talking to a few candidates for new orderlies later on in the afternoon.”

“It sounds as though you’re making plans,” he observed, smiling fondly at her.

“I have a great many plans. It’s only a matter of implementing them gradually, so that Dr. Whale doesn’t balk at the changes.”

“And _that’s_ why you’ll be an exemplary head nurse.”

Belle gave a cheerful wiggle at his side. She tilted her head back to see the drawing that hung over them. “You know, I’ve commissioned a piece of art from an _extremely_ talented local artist”

He chuckled. “Neal, then?”

“I’ve requested a nice, big landscape of the back garden as it might look in spring and provided plenty of paper befitting such.” She smiled, recalling the delight in Neal’s face when she’d given him the wide sheets of drawing paper. “But whatever he comes up with, I’m certain that it will fit right in.”

They sat leaning against one another in the new and novel peace. She leaned her head against his shoulder, lulled by the rhythm of his breathing and the way his hand moved along her leg. After a while his hand stopped, resting near her ankle, and she reveled in the warmth of it soaking into her skin. Then she felt him release a breath that was suspiciously close to a huff, and she looked up. 

Rummond’s head was turned in her direction, but his eyes seemed a little far away. She curled a hand over his forearm. “Something’s the matter?”

His gaze shifted into focus. “Only thinking.”

“About?”

“Next Monday.”

Knowing just what he was mulling over, Belle gave his arm a comforting squeeze.

Killian and Milah Jones had been quickly found and apprehended after their stunt, and in just the place expected. They’d returned to Ireland, back to his family home, evidently not anticipating that they might be followed right to the door. After some questioning, they had been held, and were scheduled to appear before the magistrate in a week’s time, now. Rummond would need to go and speak. He was nervous, and she understood why. The court building was the selfsame his own trial had taken place in.

“You’ve another week to prepare yourself,” she said, moving so that she could slip her arm between him and the back cushion. She ran her hand up until she reached the nape of his neck, stroking the ends of his hair slowly between her fingers. “All you have to do is tell what they did. You can ignore the two of them, if you need to. Don’t even acknowledge their existence in the court.”

“Mm,” he grumbled quietly, turning his head enough to see her face. “They both make that very difficult.”

“I’ll be there,” Belle told him. “I’ll be beside you or where you can see me the full time. Keep your eyes on me.”

Rummond tilted his head toward her hand, and she moved it to cup along his jaw. He wanted that part of his life over with - courts, Milah, Jones, all of it. He wanted to be able to close a door on it and do his best to forget as much of it as his mind would allow. He wanted to move forward with Neal and Belle, and to stop being mired so deeply in a past holding so few things that _didn’t_ hurt.

He lifted his hand to cover hers, turning his face and pressing a kiss to her palm. “Eyes on you.”


	132. Whilst the World Whirls

He hummed as he turned the last few delicate screws into place, putting together a lilting tune to keep himself company while he finished the pendant. It had come out just as he’d envisioned. Rummond had repaired countless watches, but he was proud that this one happened to be the first he’d put together from the ground up. It seemed right.

“Anything you need, Captain?” Nurse Nolan asked from the end of his bunk.

“Thank you, no,” he said with a quick look up. “I’m just fine.”

She smiled, nodded, and went about her business, next stopping by Reyes’ bunk.

Officially, Nurse Nolan had taken over the section of beds that had been Belle’s. For now, at least. She was kind enough, cheerful and helpful, and seemed eager to prove herself a good ward nurse gain. However, she was no Belle.

Belle had a great deal to tend to, particularly as her duties just now were complicated by untangling some of Nurse Mills’ old messes. Their morning custom of tea and keeping company upon her arrival at the hospital had gone unchanged. She was able to sit with him during breakfast on some mornings and dinner every evening, and her night shifts were the same as ever. She spent them in the chair in the front corner, reading one medical journal or text or another while she watched over the ward.

Their lunchtime visit had fallen aside, but he made his way to her office in the mid-afternoons. She had set aside the time for paperwork. He occupied the end of the sofa nearest her desk while she worked, waiting until she finished. He’d worried that he distracted her, but she encouraged it, peeking into the ward until he saw and followed. Her paperwork didn’t typically take long - not unless there had been some incident - and more often than not, she had a few minutes or so to spend curled up next to him before she needed to check in on another of the wards or take some issue to Dr. Whale for straightening out.

Rummond missed simply seeing her on the ward, though, going about her day. He missed being able to observe her at her work and the feeling of her being right there. 

“It won’t be for much longer,” Belle had promised on the previous afternoon, her legs across his lap and the pads of her fingers stroking along his own. “I’ve nearly got the inventory up to date, and there’s only the shuffling of nurse schedules to see to after that. Nurse Mills had a terrible habit of using a change of assignment as punishment. Nurses have been requesting their original wards and hours back, and I’m determined to accommodate as many as possible.”

He was very pleasantly surprised to see her step onto the ward just ahead of Muis, holding the door open as the orderly brought in the trolley full of lunch trays. She took one from the top of the cart and brought it along.

“To what do I owe this?” he asked, folding a handkerchief over the little watch in his lap.

“To the fact that I might just set the inventory reports on fire, if I don’t have a few minutes’ break from them,” Belle said, though she grinned as she handed the tray to him and took her spot on the edge of the bed.

Going over full reports for each of the hospital’s supply closets was only marginally more tolerable than having to do inventory herself, she’d discovered. It likely would have been less tormenting had her predecessor so much as attempted to do them properly. The instances she’d been tasked with performing inventory as a punishment had been _only_ that, it seemed. None of her own reports had been used. She’d found them stuffed into a desk drawer. As it was, no closet had a full stock of anything it was meant to, and some had none at all of some items. A disturbing amount of supplies were on the verge of completely out, and though _technically_ the hospital had everything it needed within its walls, it could have meant a patient’s life if someone had to run to another wing’s closet to obtain a medicine or implement that should have been only feet away from its own ward doors.

Feeling her blood pressure rising as she’d gotten a wider picture of the supply situation, Belle had decided to step away from her office before she made herself ill. Spending lunchtime with Rummond was ideal. She could take in the comfort of being there with him and avoid a headache and upset stomach at the same time.

Rummond smiled up at her, turning his hand over on the blanket to offer it. “It’s been a difficult morning?”

“Difficult,” she confirmed as she took his hand. “Frustrating. Ridiculous. If I knew where Nurse Mills was just now, I’d be tempted to find her and give her shin a kick over the paperwork alone.”

“She’s lucky she’s taken off as she has, then.” He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze before taking his fork and spearing peas until they’d moved up the tines enough for a good bite.

“I felt as though the ward would be a more content place than my office.” Belle slipped her hand between her knee and his thigh so that it was pressed there. There was no longer need to hide such a simple show of affection as a touch, but contact and the habit of it were comforting. “By which I mean you.”

His smile turned a touch bashful at that, and she nudged his leg to brighten it further. While he ate, she glanced past him to the row of beds just the other side. Jezek was in the middle of emptying his footlocker, packing his belongings away in a suitcase that appeared older than he was. He had been discharged. Astrid had come to her earlier in the week to arrange a leave of absence so that they could have a honeymoon. They were leaving immediately, and Astrid would be away for a month.

The young nurse came onto the ward, carrying a brown waistcoat. She wore a little pink seeing-off dress that she’d been saving just for the day. Belle remembered Ruby telling her how they’d found it at a shop in town not long after the wedding. It was neither ornamented nor at all expensive, but she had decided it was just the thing immediately upon seeing it.

“I found it,” she told him as she held the waistcoat out. “It was down in the laundry. I must have missed it when I fetched back the rest.”

“Thank you, sweet pea,” Jezek said, leaning to kiss Astrid’s cheek as he took it. 

Belle looked away and pressed her lips together to hide a soft chuckle. She’d never seen Jezek as cheerful as he was around his wife. It was a lovely change, but she wasn’t certain she would ever become accustomed to it.

Rummond couldn’t find it in him to resent the Bombardier’s release. Jezek had been a patient for more than a year, now. After all the man had lived through, he deserved to leave the hospital as hale and happy as possible. Rummond couldn’t deny itching for the day that he would get to go, as well, though.

As if she sensed what he was thinking of, Belle’s hand moved to rest over his knee. She patted him. “All right?” she asked quietly.

“I am.” He poked at the piece of bread next to his plate, finally tearing a piece off to put in his mouth. “My time’ll come.”

She smiled, relieved by the sliver of optimism that he showed her. “Yes, it will.”

Astrid and her husband made their way to the front of the ward, pursued by a small group of nurses saying their farewells. Belle watched her go through a round of hugs, the young nurse’s smile growing broader by the second. Jezek held the door open, waiting for her. Astrid looked around until she found Belle, and she scurried over.

Throwing her arms around Belle’s neck in a quick hug, Astrid said, “Thank you for everything you’ve done to help us,” and her eyes shone when she stood back. She smiled and hurried away again before Belle had a chance to respond.

Belle shook her head, smiling as she watched the two of them leave the ward. The nurses clustered around the doors for a few minutes before drifting back to their sections. She sorted a chocolate candy from her apron pocket and popped it into her mouth. She and Rummond wouldn’t leave the hospital in quite the same way as Jezek and Astrid, but she would get to accompany him out when he was released. It was something she thought of _so_ often; she could only imagine how much more he was looking forward to getting back to a life outside of hospital walls.

Astrid and Jezek hadn’t been gone for more than fifteen minutes when a dark-haired woman in a bright green dress and matching coat hurried in.

“Ashley!” she called through the room, shaking an envelope ahead of her.

Belle and Rummond both turned to watch the woman’s progress down the opposite aisle.

“For heaven’s sake, Thisbe, what’s the matter with you?” Nurse Boyd said, stepping from between two beds with a finished lunch tray in her hands. She set it on the nearest footlocker.

“Something wrong?” Ariel asked from up the aisle.

Nurse Boyd shook her head, waving a hand over the other nurse’s concern. “It’s only my sister.”

 _“Only_ your sister, at a time like this!” Thisbe said, but it didn’t seem to affect her excitement overmuch. She shook the envelope at Nurse Boyd again. “Here, open it!”

“What is…” Nurse Boyd started, but her words fell away in a gasp as she looked at the return address. “Oh… Oh, God.”

She tore the envelope open, shredding it in an attempt to get at its contents. There were only seconds between Nurse Boyd liberating the letter inside and her reaction to it. With a shrill scream of joy, she began jumping up and down, grabbing hold of her sister’s coat sleeves.

Belle stood, frowning as the ward was sent into a tizzy. She was ready to go over and ask Nurse Boyd to either calm down or take her letter into the corridor, but Ruby got there first.

“Ashley!” Ruby scolded sharply, marching over. “You don’t scream on this ward! Or any ward, for that matter.”

“He’s coming home!” Nurse Boyd squealed.

“What?” Ruby asked, but the other nurse had gone back to her letter. “Ashley, what?”

“My husband!” Nurse Boyd said, shaking her head in disbelief. “Sean is alive! They’ve found him!”

“They _found_ him?” Nurse Nolan blurted out from over near Strand’s bed. She hurried across to take part in hearing the news firsthand. 

“What does he say?” Thisbe asked, grabbing hold of her sister’s arm to draw her attention back. 

“He turned up in Copenhagen. He was in a prison camp. When they were released at the end of the war, he got into a fight on the train they were loaded onto.” Nurse Boyd turned the paper over, apparently hoping for more on the back. “There was a head injury, and he ended up in Copenhagen. He was in hospital there for months… He says he didn’t know who he was. But his memory came back, and there he is!” 

“Oh, Ashley, that’s wonderful!” Nurse Nolan said.

“How am I to get there?” Nurse Boyd suddenly paled. “I don’t have the money to get to _Denmark!”_

“Here,” Thisbe said, pulling something from her coat pocket. “Ana and I went in together for a train ticket and money for the trip. There’s enough to buy Sean a ticket back, as well. I’ll take care of the baby. We’ve everything figured out. All you have to do is go.”

Nurse Boyd burst into tears, taking the money and tickets that her sister offered, holding it all to her chest. It took her a good while to compose herself. “I’ll need to talk to Dr. Whale,” she said, wiping at her face with one of Nurse Nolan’s handkerchiefs.

Her sister took her arm, walking her out, and the ward was left quiet again. 

As happy as she was for Ashley to be reuniting with her husband, Belle was all too aware that she’d just lost another nurse - at least for the time being. That made her two short for the east ward when they barely got by with the full complement as it was. Something would have to be done.

She stayed with Rummond through lunch, then returned - reluctantly - to the inventory reports still waiting for her. By evening, she had at last worked her way through them and had an updated request form filled in to be sent along for the next supply shipment. It was one more weight off her shoulders.

Belle waited until just before dinner to go and see Dr. Whale. She knew that he’d always finished with patients by that time, though he would still be in his office until the end of the day. On her way through the corridors to the other end of the hospital, she went over in her head what she wanted to say. She’d been going through it and refining her thoughts since the afternoon. The nursing and orderly staffs were under her control now, but there were certain things she couldn’t do without the administrator’s go-ahead. Increasing the staff past a certain point was one of them.

She’d barely knocked when he called, “Come in!”

“I have a few things that I need to speak briefly with you about, doctor,” she began as she let herself into his office.

He looked down at the papers on his desk, finishing his signature at the bottom of the page in front of him before giving her his full attention. “I expected so. Go ahead.”

She opted for the easiest first - the things that were completely up to her. “I’m going to bring Nurse Jezek onto the east ward full time, effective when she returns. She started out there, and she has a wonderful bedside manner with fragile patients.”

“An excellent idea,” Dr. Whale agreed.

“I’m also replacing Quinn Lowell and Jonathan Gardner, starting next week,” she informed him. “I’ve chosen a pair of brothers, both of whom have glowing references. I’ll send you their files as soon as I have them put together.”

The doctor nodded, clearly ready to return to what he’d been busy with before her interruption. “That sounds just fine, Nurse French. Is that all?”

“There’s another issue that I need to discuss,” Belle said before he could turn his attention away from her. “Nurse Boyd has taken an emergency leave of absence, and Nurse Jezek is taking one for her honeymoon, as well-”

“Yes,” the doctor acknowledged. “I’ve been notified of and authorized both.”

“Which means I’ve just lost two nurses in one day. That leaves me far too shorthanded, even if their leaves are temporary.”

“Ah, of course. I understand. If you need to borrow a nurse from another ward to tide you over until they return-”

She cut in before he could talk her right out of his office. “That isn’t what I mean. Temporary or not, either way the east ward is in dire need of another nurse.”

“We spoke about this not too long ago, I believe,” Dr. Whale said, giving her a bit of a perturbed look. “The hospital simply does not have the funds to allow it.”

“All due respect, Dr. Whale, but you need to _make_ a way. The other wards can get by with the nurses that they have, for the most part. The east ward, as much as I love it, does tend toward being a bit more volatile. We increasingly have times when we are in over our heads, and that should never have become an ordinary day. I believe that I have some of the best nurses in the hospital, but we have got to have another hand down there. Sir,” she said, remembering to tack the respectful address onto the end of her much-practiced speech.

He looked at her, a bit taken aback, and she worried that she’d gone too far in demanding it. She resisted the need to drop his gaze as the silence extended, determined to stand her ground.

Finally, thoughtfully, he said, “All right.” There was a moment where she wasn’t sure what to think, before he went on. “Saturday morning. If you’ll meet me in my office, you and I will go over the hospital budget together. If we can shuffle things around to make room for an extra paycheck, you have your new nurse.”

“Thank you,” Belle said as somberly as she could with the way she beamed.

“Don’t thank me just yet,” Dr. Whale warned. “We haven’t found that money.”

She turned to leave the office, thoughts already spinning over suggestions that she needed to make note of. “We’ll find it!”


	133. With Mirth and Laughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _[LadySybil prompted: I'd also love to see Bae meet Graham and draw something just for him, as well as see Bae, Belle, and Mrs. Potts bake or cook something together--I had a dream where the three of them were rolling out dough, Belle's face covered in flour due to Bae's overenthusiastic motions and Belle teasing him about the Cookie Monster coming to get him and Bae laughing, hiding behind Mrs. Potts saying the Bakery Fairy would protect him]_

Belle did her best to not be annoyed by having to spend the morning of her birthday discussing money and budgets with the administrator. It was for a good reason and she did need to be there. Still, she was missing her customary birthday breakfast of crêpes, custard, and preserves. It made her all the more determined. She was certain that Mrs. Potts would make up for it next Saturday, but she would be damned if she didn’t accomplish setting aside enough for another nurse’s salary when she was missing the beginning of one of her favorite days of the year.

She’d brought along her files for the Darling brothers - Michael and John - so that Dr. Whale could have a look before they started work on Tuesday. They were more than suitable replacements. Both men had worked field ambulances during the war, and their hospital experience before and after was rather impressive. Firefly Hill was lucky to get them. 

Dr. Whale was already in his office when she arrived in the pre-dawn. She was glad that he’d been true to his word when he agreed the evening before to meet particularly early. With a look at the files she handed across his desk, the doctor couldn’t help but approve of her orderly hires.

He had the heavy ledger that held the hospital’s annual budget in the years since he’d been administrator set on the desk, turned so that she could read it. Belle pulled one of the chairs on her side of the desk up close and sat, sliding the ledger to the edge and giving it a good scouring. There wasn’t a great deal of wiggle room. She brought out her notepad of thoughts on it and wrote a few things down, striking through a number of others. It wasn’t going to be easy, but she had expected that.

She spent a not insignificant portion of the morning with Dr. Whale, quibbling over spending and ideas and not getting much of anywhere. When it became obvious that he wasn’t taking her as seriously as she needed, Belle told him about the ward as she experienced it. She told him of each of the patients’ illnesses and injuries, their symptoms, the time and attention that it took to care for them properly, and how patients and staff alike were bent with stress on challenging days. It was information that she knew for a fact he had in the files housed in his cabinets, that he should have known for himself, but he listened intently and with a grim set to his mouth as though this were the first he heard of it.

At length, he gave her a slow nod. “You need another nurse,” the doctor agreed somberly, and she was satisfied that he at last understood her side of the desk. Visibly enlightened after her quite one-sided discussion, he was more than ready to buckle down and find the money required.

Willingness aside, negotiations remained mired in impossible cuts to the budget. Belle had nearly poked and prodded her hair from its bun in irritation when she finally closed the ledger with a solid clap.

“I’ll remain at my previous pay,” she said in a tone that allowed no debate. 

Dr. Whale looked up at her in shock. “Nurse French, I-”

“It’s no hardship on me. I haven’t bills to pay or anyone depending on me financially,” she reasoned. “Take the difference between my ward nurse and head nurse salary and apply it to the new hire.”

Closing his slack mouth, he shook his head, but he scribbled for a bit on the paper he’d been doing his own figuring on. “You realize that isn’t nearly enough to cover another full ward nurse’s salary?”

“I know. But perhaps that will make it easier to find more, with a lower number to move forward from.”

“It is _still_ a sizable amount,” he said. “We can’t precisely cut down on medications and supplies. I’ve done as much there as I can.”

She sat back, tilting her pencil back and forth between her fingers. “No, we can’t cut down on them,” she agreed, though she felt as if there were something right _there_ on the tip of her tongue. It took a moment for the thought to coalesce into something that made sense. “Perhaps we might find a way to keep the inventory steady at a lesser cost?”

He tapped the cap of his fountain pen on the corner of his blotter a few times before apparently deciding upon something. Dr. Whale slid open his top center desk drawer and brought out a small, leather covered address book.

“Come with me, Nurse French,” he said, pushing his chair back.

She took her notebook and followed quickly after him to the front desk. He turned the switch to light the foyer and stepped over to the telephone table, opening the address book. Belle leaned so that she could see the page that he opened to, finding a list of doctors’ names with contact information filled in next to each. 

Dr. Whale lifted the telephone’s handset and leaned so that he could speak into the mouthpiece. Belle stood by in surprised amusement as he roused an impressive number of hospital administrators from their beds to ask after their suppliers. He repeated the phrases, “Yes, I do know what time it is,” and, “Yes, _right now,_ if you would,” so many times that she lost count. 

After the initial round of calls, he had a list of companies and their telephone numbers. Switching off with every other call, they spent two and a half hours - moving through dawn and Nurse Lind’s arrival, into mid-morning - looking into and calling pharmaceutical companies to compare prices and inventories. They ended up taking advice from the Bristol Royal Infirmary’s administrator and splitting their future orders between their current company and a second one, obtaining a better price on very near half of their regularly delivered supplies and carving a nice little chunk out of the hospital’s budget. 

Their efforts left a small portion still to be found. Belle was on the verge of telling Dr. Whale that she would speak with the nursing staff about splitting the remainder between them all and donating the last bit, when he cleared his throat and spoke.

“I’ll make up the difference out of my own pay,” he said, a look of resolve forming on his face. “You took a cut in salary. I can certainly do my part. As you said, it will be no hardship.”

Belle thought perhaps he felt a bit shamed that she had offered up her own and he hadn’t. She knew that his family was not an unwealthy one. Whatever it was, she was glad that it had pricked his conscience enough to help personally.

“We have the full amount?” she asked.

“We do,” he confirmed. “A full salary for one new ward nurse.”

Her shoulders sagged a bit in relief. “Thank you!”

“You did all of the convincing and the lion’s share of the work, Nurse French. No need to thank me.”

“Do we need to put this in writing?”

Dr. Whale waved her off. “I’ll add the changes to the budget.”

“Thank you. I’ll bring the new nurse in as soon as I can,” she told him. “Early next week, ideally.”

“Do you have someone in mind?” he asked.

She nodded. “I do. I have a few, just in case, but one is at the top of my list.”

He closed his address book, handing her pencil back to her as they walked back to his office. “Might I ask who?”

She’d had in mind just the person for a good while. Getting placed as head nurse had only given her the opportunity. “Nurse Elizabeth Lagorio,” she said, lacing her hands together down her front. “I worked with her in the field hospital where I was stationed in France during the war. She’s perhaps not as polished as some of the others here, but she _is_ a great nurse with experience around severely traumatized servicemen.”

Liz Lagorio was brash, truth be told, and a little rough around the edges, but when it came right down to it, she was one of the best nurses that Belle had ever had the opportunity to work with. And she fought like hell for her patients. Belle wanted her on the east ward.

“I plan to get in contact with her on Monday, if I return from London early enough,” she told Dr. Whale, stepping past him when he held the door open for her.

“She sounds as if she’ll be an excellent fit,” he said approvingly. “Well, I know you have a day that you would like to get back to, and I have a fiancée waiting for me with a request for opinions on reception details.” He grinned, pressing the address book open to the pages he’d written new information on, and pulled the ledger back across his desk.

Belle took her coat from the chair she hadn’t occupied and slipped into it. “Tell Ruby that I said hello?”

“I’ll be sure to. Have a good day, Nurse French,” Dr. Whale dismissed.

She stopped at the front desk to call for Horatio, then went to look in on the ward in the meantime. Rummond was still tucked firmly into bed - unusual for any day lately, particularly as it was so near noon. She beckoned Nurse Halloran to her at the door. Ariel had the previous night’s shift, and she would have some idea what was going on.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, nodding toward Rummond.

“He’s had a terrible headache,” Ariel told her quietly. “It began sometime before lights out. He didn’t say anything, but I noticed him squinting and rubbing at his temple, and he admitted it when I asked.”

“You gave him something for it?”

“He wouldn’t have it, not at first. It got so bad that he asked, though. I ended up cutting a Luminal and giving him perhaps a third of it to give him some ease.”

Anxiety, Belle quickly decided. Rummond’s headaches had eased a great deal over the course of his treatment. The only change had been the stress he’d felt over the hearing. His headache had likely been developing while they sat together during his dinner, and he hadn’t mentioned it. 

She went over to check on him for herself, touching his wrist and folding back a corner of his covers so that she could watch how he breathed. His pulse was strong and his breathing was fine - something she worried about when he had Luminal, after the first time that Nurse Mills had given him too high a dose. He was simply out like a light.

Rummond’s face was a bit drawn. She stroked her fingers along his cheek before tugging his blankets higher around him, smiling when she saw the edge of his quilt sandwiched between them. Leaning down, she rested a hand on his shoulder. 

“Feel better, sweetheart,” she whispered to him. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Neal and I.”

She met Ariel again, this time returning to the ward with a hand towel over one arm and carrying a basin with dressing supplies, heading in Commander Strand’s direction. “Keep an eye on Captain Gold,” Belle said. “If he feels worse or there’s some change, call me.”

“I will, of course,” Ariel agreed, and Belle gestured her on.

When she arrived home, Neal and Mrs. Potts were in the kitchen. She could hear the talking and laughter from the end of the hallway.

“Is this a secret meeting, or may I join in?” she asked as she peered around the doorframe.

“Belle!” Neal greeted her cheerfully, waving flour-covered hands at her. “We’re making cherry biscuits!”

She stepped over to the opposite side of the counter and watched as he did his very best to work one of Mrs. Potts’ small rolling pins over the most oddly-shaped piece of pastry dough she had ever seen. “Are we?”

“Since you’re here, you can be helpful,” Mrs. Potts said. She moved a jar of whole cherry conserves across to Belle. “Half the jar. Drain them of syrup and place them over in the bowl there.”

“Setting me to work on my birthday,” Belle tutted, teasing. She popped the lid open and began spooning out a couple of cherries at a time.

“I believe that should be thin enough,” Mrs. Potts told Neal after a few more minutes of rolling. She handed him a cookie cutter with a sharp, scalloped edge. “Press straight down all the way through to the counter, then give it a little twist.”

Neal did as she said. His pieces turned out fine, for the most part. She took them as he cut them, setting them neatly aside on a pan. After rolling it out once more to get all the pieces possible from the dough, Mrs. Potts placed two cherries in each and folded them so that two sides met in the middle and the cherries peeked out the ends. She dusted her hands on her apron before taking the biscuits to the oven.

“So then, are you getting that nurse?” Mrs. Potts asked as she began putting things away.

Neal rubbed his hands in the flour left on the counter, gathering it into a small mound before patting it out again, making designs in it. He had it all over the kitchen towel that had been tucked into into his collar, its corners pulled through the sleeves of his waistcoat to protect his clothing. Flour smudged his face and powdered bits of his hair at the front.

“Did you doubt I would?” Belle smiled, reaching across to thump her finger in the flour as Neal gathered it together again. It made a small puff and he laughed. She leaned on the countertop to watch him play.

Mrs. Potts chuckled. “That Dr. Whale hadn’t a hope. When you set your mind to something, you certainly set your mind to it.”

Neal thumped a finger through the flour in Belle’s direction, trying twice before it made a satisfactory little cloud. Using the sides of his hands, he brushed together all the flour he could gather. He formed it into a mound wider than it was long and looked thoughtfully down at it. After a moment, he lined his fingers up behind his thumb and flicked them behind the flour to send it flying.

Belle squawked in surprise as a little patter of flour hit the side of her face. She looked over at Neal and went on to give him a dramatic gasp. His eyes were wide, but a broad smile surfaced when Belle laughed. Reaching over, she pressed her fingertips in the flour and leaned to swipe tham over the little boy’s cheek. With a squeak, he tucked himself under Mrs. Potts’ arm.

“Keep at it and I’ll bring out of a mop and bucket for each of you,” Mrs. Potts warned, though thanks to her own grin, she wasn’t threatening in the least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(I had to split this chapter because I had some unexpected guests and a very angry kitty. Please be on the lookout for a short extra chapter during the week!)_


	134. A Late Birthday Lunch Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompts - _Verdandi36 prompted: I don't know if this is possible, but could Gold make Belle a watch? She paid for his book for Archie, and is taking care of Bae (and, you know, he loves her) and he wants to get her a "just because" gift. But since money and access are an issue, he has to get creative and make the watch from odds and ends lying around, and maybe cannibalizing parts from unrepairable watches._
> 
> _LadySybil prompted: If you have the time, a scene I'd love to see is BtFtB!Gold Family fluff where Rummond & Belle reassure Neal re: the trial: it has to happen but it'll be over with quickly and, no, the pirate won't try to hurt Rummond because he won't be allowed to and Neal offers Fleep for luck. Oh, and Rummond calls Neal "duckling". Because Papafire feels.]_

Her birthday had been merry and filled with laughter, but she missed Rummond for the entirety of it. Belle had found herself worrying over him and wishing he were there at every turn. When Neal accompanied Mrs. Potts to the kitchen to bring out her cake, she stepped into the hallway to give the hospital a quick ring. Ariel assured her that Rummond was just fine, that he’d risen in time for lunch to come around, and he’d eaten well.

With Neal at her skirt tail, Mrs. Potts returned carrying the cake. The inside was orange and the outside covered in immaculately white heavy cream icing, and the top had been decorated with marzipan rosettes in a large cluster. It had been ordered from their usual _pâtisserie_ in London and fetched back by Horatio. Mrs. Potts never had been particularly thrilled with the arrangement for Belle’s birthday cakes, but her father insisted on a decorated one, and Mrs. Potts had yet to master the art of it. She placed it in front of Belle and settled the cake ring over it, bringing a box of matches out from her pocket to light the candles. Belle had closed her eyes and blown out the dancing candle flames, this year wishing for something different. 

Her father gave her a pretty cloche fashioned from light blue velvet, with a wide, turned-up brim and a blue silk ribbon sewn into the shape of a flower peeking over it. In a joint effort by Neal and Mrs. Potts (and she suspected a bit of help from Rummond), they had given her a medical bag made of fine brown leather. She’d teared up so that Neal rounded the table to pat her and ask whether she liked her present. The great hug she’d gathered him into made it doubtless.

Between lunch and dinner, she and Neal played quoits in the sitting room while her father looked on. Neal talked him into playing a few rounds, fetching the rope rings back so that Maurice didn’t have to get up. When quoits lost its charm, Belle showed Neal how to set up skittles with a small parlor set that hadn’t seen use in years.

Even with the extra reassurance from Mary Margaret when she’d telephoned again after dinner, worries nagged at the back of Belle’s mind until she and Neal arrived at the hospital early the next morning. Rummond was sitting up in bed waiting for them.

“Where did Neal go?” she asked as she neared his space. Neal had, as usual, hurried ahead with the picnic basket while she stopped by the kitchen.

Rummond turned his face up to her. “He needed a quick privy run.”

She set his tea on the bedside table and looked down at him. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” he said. “And happy birthday, love.”

“Thank you.” Belle smiled and brushed his hair back, her fingers grazing his ear. “How do you feel?”

“Hm,” he hummed softly before claiming, “A good deal better.”

She could see a little tension lingering at the corners of his eyes. “Truthfully?”

“Head still feels a bit tender at the temples.” He wrinkled his nose. “And behind the eyes. Isn’t searing, though.”

Belle stroked the pad of her thumb against his temple and he sighed. 

“Nurse Halloran mentioned you’d come in after your meeting with Dr. Whale.” Rummond reached for the hand at her side, and he gave it a gentle tug, asking her to sit down. “I’m sorry I wasn’t awake. I wanted to wish you a happy birthday on the actual _day_ of.”

She let her hand move away from his face as she sat, settling in with her knee nudged up against his. “Pretend it still is, then. I’m happy to claim two days for my birthday.”

“Papa,” Neal said from across the ward, heading back at a lope. “Papa, Papa?”

“You washed your hands?” Rummond asked as the boy bounced back onto his bunk.

Rather than going behind one of the bed’s occupants or perhaps around to the other side entirely, Neal climbed right across their laps to find a spot to sit. “I washed them. Can Belle have her presents now?”

Belle lifted her eyebrows. “Presents?”

“Presents!” Neal chirped. “Can she?”

Rummond cast a fondly exasperated look at his son. “What happened to that secret?”

For a very short moment, Neal appeared sheepish. Then he gave a little shrug. “Yeah, but I want to see her get them!”

Reaching over, Rummond gave Neal’s nose a gentle tweak. “Presents, then.” He looked to Belle. “Close your eyes?”

She did, putting a hand over them for good measure. “You needn’t have gotten me anything.”

He scoffed. “As if I’d allow your birthday to pass without presents.” 

Belle heard a tiny rattling sound and then an _‘ooh’_ from Neal, and her curiosity grew.

“All right. Open,” Rummond said, and when she looked, he was presenting her with both of his hands. They were closed, knuckles up, asking her to choose between them. 

She tilted her head, examining one and then the other. “Is there something in both?”

He put on a suspicious expression, then held his hands up so that he could look into the thumb side of them where he had them curled shut. With widened eyes, he shrugged in a gesture precisely like his son’s. “Suppose you’ll have to see.”

“Choose one!” Neal said excitedly, wiggling closer to her.

She tapped Rummond’s left hand. He turned it over, opening it to show her a piece of wrapped candy. Belle gave him an amused look, but he only gave her an expectant one in return as she offered the candy to Neal. With a shake of her head, she tapped his right hand.

Rummond turned the other hand over and opened it to reveal the watch he had at last finished, the pendant lying on top of a glimmering nest of coiled golden chain

“Oh, Rum,” Belle whispered, lifting the pendant from his hand. The chain slid off his palm and between his fingers like so much liquid. She swallowed over a lump in her throat. “This is what you’ve been hiding and fiddling with for the last month and a half, isn’t it?”

He smiled. “It is.”

“It’s beautiful!” Her thumb nail skirted around the crystal protecting the watch’s face. “The time you took with it… You built it yourself?”

“Every last wheel and screw,” he confirmed proudly. “Right down to the numbers on the face.”

“Oh, it’s just beautiful,” she said again.

“May I show you something?” Rummond asked, holding his hand out. She placed the pendant in his palm once more. He turned it over, popping the back cover off, and tilted it toward her.

With a jeweler’s hand graver borrowed through Dr. Hopper from his watchmaker friend, Rummond had carved a delicate heart into the bridge inside. The letters _B+R_ were engraved at its center.

Belle went from being a bit choked up to tears spilling right over as he clicked the cover back into place and returned the watch to her. Leaning forward, she cradled his face between her hands and kissed him there in the early morning quiet of the ward.

Rummond felt the sweet warmth of her hands and the cool metal of the necklace chain where she still held onto her present. Hargreaves whistled softly between his teeth from his own bunk, where he was still mostly tucked in. The observation only served to make the happiness that Rummond felt glowing behind his breastbone feel that much brighter. 

She heard a muffled squeak from Neal, and when she pulled back, he’d plopped over to press his face into the blanket. He turned his head to look up at her, grinning. 

Sorting the chain out, she sat back and opened it between her hands, putting the long necklace on over her head. She lifted the pendant, admiring it again. Rummond had made it with his own hands. He’d put it together, piece by piece, creating a working watch. Every component inside had his touch on it. She would have him close, no matter where he was.

“I know you need your lapel watch for work,” he said quietly as she was looking at the numbers so carefully painted on the watch’s face. “And I know that two are a bit much. Don’t feel that you have to wear it, if you don’t wish to.”

“Of course I’ll wear it.” Belle beamed up at him. She gave the pendant another affectionate look before slipping it down between her uniform dress and apron. It was fashionably long, and she couldn’t wear it where it would swing about, but she _was_ going to wear it. “What could be more appropriate, with my intended being a watchmaker, and all?”

She heard a distinctly happy sound come from Rummond, and she lay her hand on his knee.

“There’s another one!” Neal said. He reached to pat his Papa’s arm over and over. “Give her the other one, too!”

“Aye, I’m getting to it.” Rummond chuckled. “It’s on the shelf there. Do you want to hand it to her?”

Neal was off the bed and around the other side before his father finished asking. He took the tin box off top of the parcel beneath the table, replacing it on the shelf before depositing the paper-wrapped package in Belle’s lap. He stepped back to lean against his Papa’s leg, watching.

She turned the package over and began pulling the heavy brown paper away, unwinding it from the soft thing inside. The deep blue of the woolen fabric was familiar as soon as she saw it.

“A nurse’s cape!” Belle smiled, tickled that he had remembered how she told him she’d lost her own. 

She unfolded it and held it by the shoulders, letting it fall open over her lap. Bringing it closer, she peered at the collar - more specifically, at a short row of hand stitched mending in thread just a bit too light for the fabric. Belle recalled borrowing the thread from another nurse.

She looked curiously up to Rummond. “…This is _my_ cape. How did you-?”

“It took a good bit of letter writing and a few calls.” One of his shoulders twitched in the slightest shrug. “I found the mother of the boy you put it on. Thomas Duim.”

Belle shook her head. “I never knew his name.”

“He lived until they got him home. His mother met him at the hospital and he passed that night,” Rummond told her gently. “But his mother received all of his effects. She said that she couldn’t bear to do away with it, knowing that a nurse somewhere had given it to keep her son warm. She had it cleaned and put it up.”

“And you found it,” Belle whispered, tears springing to her eyes for the second time that morning. 

“She said that she was glad to be able to return it to you. You had a part in her being able to see her son again, even if only for a few hours.”

She ran her hand down the front of the cape. “I’m going to wear it when we go tomorrow,” she said. “The uniform commands a bit of respect, and don’t think I won’t use every bit of that I can.”

“What’s tomorrow?” Neal asked, looking up at his Papa and then Belle. “Where are you going?”

She brushed the dampness away from her eyes before it could fall, trading a look with Rummond over Neal’s head.

He looked back to his Papa, frowning as he felt that something was being held back. Neal climbed up, placing himself firmly in his father’s lap.

Rummond wrapped his arms around his son and tried to sort out how much to say. “You remember the last time you saw your Mum?” he asked, and he felt the little boy cringe.

“I remember,” Neal said.

“And you remember that police officers came by to talk about it?”

His son nodded and said again, “I remember.”

“Well, what they did was very bad,” Rummond explained. “And it was against the law. The police found them. Belle and I, we’re going into London tomorrow to have a talk with some people about what happened.”

“We’re going to make _certain_ that they’ll never come around again,” Belle added, reaching out to run a hand over the boy’s curls.

Neal looked as though he carefully considered what they said. “Never never again?”

“Never,” Belle promised. “When we’re done, they won’t be allowed to.”

“Okay. Good.” Neal relaxed into his Papa’s arms, seeming reasonably satisfied. He tilted his head back to look up at his father. “Are you scared?”

Rummond glanced to Belle before answering. “I’m a bit nervous. It’s a very important meeting.”

“You can borrow Fleep,” Neal offered. “Fleep makes me feel better.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of his son’s head. “Thank you, duckling, but you keep him. Belle will be with me. I’ll be all right.”

After basking in his Papa’s reassuring snuggles for a few minutes, Neal opened and closed his hand in Belle’s direction to bring her attention to him. “Can we have cake again now?”

She turned a smile from Rummond to Neal. “What, before breakfast?”

“Cake happened _before_ presents yesterday,” he reasoned in response.

She squinted at him. “A very small piece. And we’ll save the marzipan to go with the rest after lunch.”

“Small pieces now and big pieces later?” Neal bargained.

“Just so,” Belle agreed with a grin, turning to reach for the basket.


	135. Peace and Justice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(A reminder just in case anyone missed it - there was[an extra mid-week chapter again this week](http://ishtarelisheba.tumblr.com/post/160784437659/better-to-face-the-bullets).)_

“Sweetheart?” Belle rested a hand on the blanket covering Rummond where he curled on his side. She set her lantern on his bedside table and gave his upper arm a rub.

He rolled toward her, saying quietly, “I’m awake.”

“Did you manage any sleep at all?” she asked.

Rummond made a small, doubtful sound. 

“Come on, then,” she said, giving his hip a pat as she stepped back to give him room to sit up. “Wash up, get your morning things done, and there’ll be a bit of breakfast waiting in my office when you’re finished.”

He pushed his blankets back and turned to move his legs over the side of the bed, reaching for his cane. “It won’t take me long.”

Lieutenant Hargreaves’ bedsprings squeaked as he turned over. “Up this early?” he muttered.

“We have to be in London by eight,” Belle told the Lieutenant, her hand lingering on Rummond’s back as he stood. She took his robe from the foot of the bed and handed it to him.

“Good luck, Captain,” Jefferson wished Rummond as he took the lantern and made his way toward the washroom. “Good luck, there, nursie.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Well wishes and good thoughts would be lovely today.”

Jefferson nodded. “I’ll make certain you get plenty of both.”

She went down to the kitchen to fetch back something for them, and by the time he’d finished, she had two cups of strong, heavily sugared tea and toast with apple jam waiting in her office. They would be leaving well before breakfast trays were brought out, and she wanted Rummond to have something settled in his stomach.

It was just beginning to get light out when she walked with him back down to her office. Belle herded him gently into her chair and she sat on top of the desk near him so that she could prod him into eating, if necessary.

“You brought this from home,” Rummond said, remembering the breakfasts he’d eaten over Christmas. “The jam?”

“I remember how you liked it. I thought you might be likely to eat more, if you had something you enjoy. Horatio brought it along.”

Rummond smiled up at her. It was startling to be thought of and considered so. He reached over, giving her knee an affectionate squeeze. 

Belle’s leg twitched with the tickle of it, and she laughed. Horatio had come along early to bring her a fresh uniform, anyway. She didn’t want to go to the hearing with her dress limp and wrinkled, and bringing the jar of jam had been an easy addition. The driver sat in the hospital foyer until time to leave. 

On the evening before, Dove had delivered Rummond’s suit and the necessities to go along with it, and it all waited there in Belle’s office. It was the suit that he’d worn to his father’s funeral that he would be wearing to the hearing. It fit him best, just now, and it was the best he had. Belle had asked him to have Dove find a blue tie, and Dove came through with a fine one in a medium tone, striped with a subtle, silvery blue. Rummond was particularly fetching in blue, and she intended him to look as nice as possible.

With what served as their breakfast done, she pointed out the hook in the wall on the far side of the sofa, where a garment bag holding his suit hung between the corner and a slender-framed wall mirror. Belle remained in her seat on the desk with her back _mostly_ turned. Though his back was turned to her, as well, she could feel the self-consciousness radiating off him when she glanced over as he stripped down to his smalls. On any other occasion, she might have shown her appreciation for his scantily dressed form, but this was perhaps not the time.

Rummond left his robe and gown folded over the sofa arm, his slippers pushed up near the wall. He dressed carefully, using deliberate movements, clinging to the control of it and the slowly increasing comfort that came to him with wearing layers of real clothing.

When he stood from putting on his shoes, Belle helped him into his overcoat. She brushed away a bit of lint that wasn’t really there near the lapel. Dove had done too good a job of making certain that Rummond’s things were immaculate, and that gave her own nervous hands little to fuss over.

“You look wonderful,” she told Rummond, smiling up at him. “So handsome.”

The back of his neck warmed. “It’s only a suit.”

“I’m too accustomed to seeing you in your hospital gown,” she said, stepping over to take her cape down from where it hung next to his now empty garment bag. “As little as I’ve gotten to see you in a suit, I think I understand why men enjoy seeing women in complicated lingerie.”

He laughed softly, his face pinking as she watched. With a grin, she rose up on her toes to press a kiss to the warmth gathering in his cheek.

Swinging the cape around her shoulders with a flash of its red lining, Belle felt just a tiny bit more invincible with it on again. She’d missed wearing it. From the rounded back of the sofa, she took a crisp, black wool Homburg encircled with a watered black ribbon and offered it to Rummond.

“I haven’t a hat like this,” he said, though he accepted it as she held it out.

“Dove said he had a look at the ones in your things and he couldn’t in good conscience allow you in public again in any of them. The word ‘horrendous’ was used somewhere.”

“He bought this thing with his own money.” Rummond pulled a face. “I’ll have his hide.”

Belle only just kept herself from snorting in amusement. “Oh, I’d love to witness that.”

“I’ll catch him while he’s asleep,” he went on, teasing her. “Wrap him up in the sheet and trounce him before he knows it.”

“Mmhmm.” She turned him to face her, fiddling with the knot in his tie. “I’m sure paying him back for the hat would go far better than a… trouncing.”

Rummond put it on his head. “How is it?” he asked. 

“You look absolutely dashing,” she said. Belle reached up to straighten the tilt of the hat, combing the sides and ends of his hair back with her fingers until she’d arranged it more smoothly. She glanced at her watch. “I suppose we’d best go.”

He took his cane from its lean against the sofa and Belle caught her hand in the bend of his arm before they left the office. 

Nurse Lind had arrived and taken up her station when they went through the foyer. “Good luck, dears,” she wished as they passed her desk.

Horatio went out ahead of them, starting the tourer’s engine and opening the door. Gathering her skirts, Belle got in first and slid across to make room for Rummond to get in after her. His stomach tied itself in knots again as they pulled away from the hospital, the effects of the easy chatter in her office deserting him. 

“Neal still tried to send Fleep along for you this morning,” Belle told him. “Apparently he left him with my dress after Mrs. Potts put everything together for Horatio to bring along.”

Rummond’s smile was tense. “He’s a good boy.”

“Yes, he is.” She reached over for the hand resting in his lap, and she drew it over to her own, slipping her fingers between his. 

The drive was quiet save for Belle’s occasional offer of a peppermint and a handful of attempts to distract him with conversation. He found it impossible to concentrate on the present. There was too much going through his mind - memories that seemed to have happened too recently to be nearly two years past.

He held onto Belle’s hand with his left while his right fidgeted anxiously, his thumb rubbing against the side of his forefinger as they at last made it into London proper. Rummond closed his eyes when they reached the streets that lead to the court building. The path was too familiar. He could feel the trepidation he had felt the first time he’d been brought here, straight from another hospital, flanked by soldiers in the back of a covered Dennis.

Belle looked over, seeing his closed eyes and the anxious strain in his face. She lifted a hand, reaching across to stroke the back of her fingers over Rummond’s cheek and jaw. He leaned into her touch.

Horatio parked right in front and came around to open the door for them. It was nonsense, but thoughts of being detained there again kept pushing themselves to the forefront of Rummond’s mind. What if they saw him and decided that the verdict in his trial had been wrong? What if they put _him_ in prison instead? What if they took him out back for execution after all? They were absurd thoughts, and he tried to dismiss them, but they sent a chill across his back nonetheless.

He was aware that Belle waited for him, and he was grateful for her patience, because it took him a few moments to be able to get out. When he managed it, he offered her his hand. She took it and gave him a smile in return.

His hand clenched around the handle of his cane as they made their way up the steps. Even the inside of the building smelled the same. He hummed quietly in distress, almost able to feel the soldier’s unforgiving grip on his arm.

“It’s all right,” Belle said, bumping gently into his side and pulling him away from the past. “I’m right here.”

Rummond took a shaky breath and looked to her. “Eyes on you.”

“That’s exactly right,” she told him as they approached the scheduled courtroom. “Everything will be just fine. All we have to do is tell the truth.”

As distracted as he seemed, Belle made certain to keep a sharp eye on him. Ruby and her Granny had already arrived and taken their seats, and she guided Rummond to the row just ahead of them. He took off his hat and held it between his knees.

It was to be a small criminal hearing with only a magistrate presiding and listening to testimonies. They were right on time. The magistrate took his own seat at the front of the courtroom just as Belle gave her lapel watch a glance. A large, quite surly looking man in a guard’s uniform led in Milah and her new husband, wearing a grubby gray dress and an equally shabby and gray set of clothes, respectively. Neither appeared anywhere near as cocky as they had when she’d last seen them.

Wasting no time, the magistrate called out, “Milah Jones,” and she stood.

Rummond looked down at his hat, turning it and running his thumb around the edge of the brim as one was questioned and then the other. He wondered if he should feel sympathy for them, but that well had long gone dry. He wanted both of them to be punished for what they’d done to his son.

The questioning seemed as though it took hours, and Rummond cringed his way through portions of it. He’d known they would bring up his past. There wasn’t enough preparation for hearing it, though.

Belle was to give testimony, and Nurse Lucas, as well. First, however…

“Rummond Gold,” the magistrate called.

Belle reached for his hand, squeezing his fingers as he stood.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

The courtroom door opening felt like a dam being broken. 

Belle stopped at the bottom of the steps to speak with Ruby and Mrs. Lucas for a moment, and Rummond went directly back to the car. He got in and leaned his head back, covering his face with his hands.

They’d tried to cast doubt on his recovery, both of them citing his trial. Milah remarked that she worried for her son’s wellbeing in the care of such a degenerate madman. Jones had said how he didn’t want the boy to come up a coward.

“After all, the boy is my _step-son,”_ he’d said, clearly relishing the word and inflicting it on Rummond. “I want him to learn how to be a man _from_ a man.”

Belle got into the car, climbing past him to take the far side of the seat again. Once Horatio had closed the door, she slipped her hand around Rummond’s upper arm, tucking herself close and hugging his arm to her.

She’d testified to all that had happened when Milah and Jones tried to take Neal, and then she had gone on a tangent of her own. If they could run their mouths past what the hearing was meant for, well then, so could she. She had spoken regarding how well-suited Captain Gold was in being a father, how much better his health had become, and how Neal was exceptionally well cared for, being fostered until his father’s release. She’d been politely asked to take her seat.

The magistrate had almost seemed taken in by their lies. In the end, however, he’d fallen back on custody law, which said that Neal belonged to his father upon completion of the divorce. Often - _most_ often, Belle felt - it was far from a fair law, where mothers and their children were concerned. But in this particular case, she was glad of it. Milah had no right at all to Rummond’s son, not in law and not in any moral or familial sense, either. Not after the things she’d done and allowed to be done to that child.

Rummond reached across himself to lay his hand over Belle’s. He tilted his head, leaning it against hers.

The relief of seeing the pair of them put in shackles and marched from the courtroom had nearly taken his breath. Jones hadn’t seemed terribly surprised, but Milah had looked thoroughly taken aback. Between the charges that Nurse Lucas pressed for assault and those Rummond pressed for attempted kidnapping, Jones received a hard labor sentence of a year, altogether. Milah was given three months in a women’s prison for her part in it. Both had been barred from attempting to see Neal again.

“What do you think of going to have something to eat with Ruby and Mrs. Lucas before we go back to the hospital?” Belle asked. “Lunchtime will have been over for a couple of hours by the time we return.”

He nodded, giving her a weary smile. “That sounds all right.”

“Horatio, take us to Rules?” she said.

“I don’t know whether I feel like laughing or crying,” Rummond murmured to her. Between the defendants’ testimonies and Belle’s, he was overwhelmed. “The things they said… the way the magistrate looked at me. I feared more and more he’d see in their favor.”

“He didn’t, though. Neither you nor Neal will ever have to deal with them again. When we get back, I want to sit in my office for a little while and enjoy simply knowing that. And I want you there with me.” Belle tilted her face up to him, asking for a kiss, and she smiled when he gave it. “I believe I can hide you away until dinner time, at least.”

“Between now and then, lunch with the Lucas ladies,” he said, a smile curling slightly in one corner of his mouth.

“You’ll be all right. You know Ruby reasonably well, and Mrs. Lucas is sweet as can be.” She patted him, and the gentle percussion of her hand against his chest was comforting. “You needn’t talk, if you don’t feel like it.”

“Good,” he agreed with a nod, glad she’d said so. “It’s been a long day.”

“It’s been such a long day.” Belle sighed, relieved beyond imagining that it was over. “Dr. Whale did offer me the entire day off. You know, the sofa in my office is excellent for napping.”

“Is it?” Rummond asked. A nap sounded ridiculously tempting.

She held more tightly to his arm, grinning up at him. “Oh, yes. Just ideal.”


	136. A Bump in the Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt - _rowofstars said: BtFtB prompt: Neal ends up having to come to the hospital after school and Belle puts him in her office until it's time for her to leave. Of course Rum knows and he gets to spend some extra time with his son, maybe even helping him with some of his homework?]_

There was a thump, and then the car jumped as if it had been surprised by the sound, itself. Neal squirmed to the edge of the seat as Horatio pulled over to the side of the road and stopped. Horatio grumbled something under his breath and turned off the engine.

“Something bad happened?” Neal asked, frowning.

Horatio opened the door and turned in the driver’s seat to get out. “Only a bump in the road, young sir. Only a bump in the road. Don’t you fret,” he said, closing the door.

Neal squirmed back again, getting on his knees on the seat and watching as the driver walked around to the back. He heard Horatio say a few words that made his eyebrows rise, and that he knew he should never say, himself. Neal watched as Horatio took off his cap and slapped it against his leg, then scratched his head. He looked around a little bit, then walked back to the door next to Neal.

“It seems we’ve hit a bit of a snag,” Horatio said, smiling though he was clearly aggravated. He held a hand out for Neal. “Step out, and we’ll have a short walk.”

Slipping the strap of his bookbag over his head and across his chest again, Neal took Horatio’s hand to be helped down from the inside of the car. “What’s wrong?”

“We’ve a flat tire,” the driver explained, keeping hold of Neal’s hand and closing the door with the other. “Must have hit something sharp in the road, there. It’s all right, though. Miss Belle’s hospital is right up here a ways. That’s where we’ll go.”

“Oh! Okay.” Neal smiled, swinging Horatio’s hand as they walked. 

He hardly ever got to go to the hospital in the middle of the week, and he’d never gone after school. He would get to see his Papa early. Last night had been Belle’s Wednesday overnight at work, too, and he hadn’t seen her since she tucked him in the night before that. It felt like a treat!

They walked for ten minutes or so before Neal recognized the shaped bushes that stood in a row next to the road right before the hospital, and he saw the building just a few seconds after. He hopped up the steps one at a time, going slowly so that he didn’t pull at Horatio, who had begun to huff and puff a bit. 

“Good afternoon, Neal,” Nurse Lind said as they went inside.

Neal announced with a smile, “We had a flat tire!”

“Oh, dear!” she replied, chuckling at his enthusiasm over such an inconvenient circumstance.

“Good afternoon,” Horatio greeted her, removing his cap again. “Only here to drop young Neal off with Miss Belle so that I can do the repairs. If it’s all right, I’ll need to use your telephone on the way out?”

Nurse Lind nodded. “It’ll be here when you come back.”

As they made their way down the corridor, Neal’s eyes remained on the door to the ward. “Can I go see my Papa?”

“I think perhaps you should ask Miss Belle about that, not I,” Horatio suggested.

He held Neal’s hand until they stood in front of Belle’s office. Neal raised a fist and knocked before Horatio could.

“We had a flat tire,” Neal told Belle, as well, when she opened the door.

Belle blinked at the surprise of the pair’s sudden appearance. “Oh?” she said before his declaration’s meaning registered. She looked up at Horatio. “Are you all right?”

“All is well, miss,” Horatio assured her. “It’s only that I’ve not got my tools to switch the flat out for the spare. I’ll have to walk back to the house to fetch them, and I didn’t want to leave the boy or make him walk the entire way.”

“Oh, no, of course not,” Belle agreed. “Thank you. It’s all right, we’ll find something to keep busy with.”

“Shall I come by for him when I have the tire sorted?” the driver asked.

She smiled down at Neal, holding her hand out to him. He dropped Horatio’s and took hers. “That won’t be necessary. He can stay until you fetch me this evening. Thank you, Horatio.”

The driver gave her a nod of his head before heading back toward the foyer. Belle looked to Neal again and found him gazing eagerly around her office with wide eyes.

“This room is all yours?” he asked, his attention drifting from point to point.

“It is, indeed,” she told him. She pointed to an open space on the wall right next to the door. “You see there? That’s where I’m going to hang the big drawing I asked you to make for me.”

Neal beamed up at her. “I’m almost finished with it!”

“Why don’t you have look around while I go and tell your Papa that you’re here?” She encouraged.

He nodded quickly and let go of her hand to pull his bookbag off, setting it on the sofa and placing his cap on top of it. Belle stepped out, closing the door behind her, and she hurried down to the ward. She found Rummond with his book open in his lap. He’d nearly finished it, going through the last third of the book more quickly than she had seen him go through a single chapter only a few months before.

Belle clasped her hands behind her back as she stopped next to his bed. “I’ve a little surprise for you.”

“Do you, now?” Rummond asked, giving her a curious look. She only beckoned to him. Marking the page, he set the book on his table and took up his cane to follow her.

“In my office,” she said when they were off the ward. 

He followed, wondering what on earth she might surprise him with and happily tagging along behind her cryptic smile and the swish of her skirts. When they reached her office, she gestured him in ahead of her.

“Hi, Papa!” Neal said, standing on tiptoes to replace a heavy text of some sort on Belle’s desk before he ran to throw his arms around his father’s hips.

“Neal!” Rummond greeted him with delight. Then he recalled the last time his son had turned up unexpectedly. “You haven’t slipped away from someone again, have you?”

Neal shook his head, saying once more, “We had a flat tire! There was a big noise, and then a big bump, and we had to walk here.”

“Horatio walked him over,” Belle clarified a bit. “He’s going to stay until I leave.”

“All the rest of the day!” Neal said happily.

Rummond leaned his cane against the desk and shifted his weight so that he could lean down to pick up his son. “There’s nothing I’d rather do,” he said, pressing a sound kiss to the boy’s cheek. Neal smiled and gave him one in return.

“We don’t have a picnic basket today,” Neal then told his father quite seriously.

“No, we don’t,” Rummond agreed. “We’ll simply have to make do, then.”

Belle laughed as she reached for the door handle. “I’m not certain Zelda would be pleased to hear her dinner referred to as ‘making do.’” 

Before she could close the door, there came a tap at it, and she peered around to find Graham there. “Belle? I’m sorry for interrupting,” he said, smiling over and Neal and Rummond.

“It’s all right,” she told him, pulling the door open a bit more again. “Is there something the matter?”

“You’re needed on the west ward.” Graham gave her a meaningful look. “There’s a bit of a problem with a patient.”

She nodded, figuring she knew just which patient he meant. “I’ll be right there.”

When Graham stepped away from her office, Belle turned to Rummond and stretched up onto her toes to kiss his cheek. “Stay here, if you like.”

“We’ll be right here,” Rummond said, and he leaned to catch a quick kiss before she left. He smiled at Neal, who played with his robe lapels. “Have you school work to do?”

“Lots,” his son admitted with a wrinkle of his nose. Then he lit up with an idea. “Will you help me?”

“I most certainly will.” Rummond gave the boy’s back a solid, affectionate pat before setting him on his feet. “Go and sort out our work, then.”

Neal fetched his bookbag and carried it over to Belle’s desk, climbing into her chair with a contented smile on his face. He brought out small textbooks and arranged them in a stack to one side, then took his notepad and set it in front of him. 

“Ready!” he declared, looking up at his Papa.

Rummond stepped over and lifted Neal from the chair, sitting down and settling his son on his lap. “All right, what have we here?”

“A-rith-me-tic,” Neal pronounced carefully. “Subtracting big numbers, top and bottom. And reading, and spelling.

“What do you want to tackle first?” his father asked.

He hummed, tilting his head to look at the spines of his school books. “Subtracting. Hardest first.”

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

Belle and Graham slipped quietly onto the west ward. It was just the patient she’d expected who was in the midst of an upset.

Lieutenant Stanum had been having a difficult time throughout his current stay. She was aware of the contents of his file and chart - there had been previous stays, but there were no notes that hinted toward issues of the sort that he’d experienced during this one. There didn’t have to be, though. She knew that such problems could surface or be triggered by any number of things.

His repeated stays were the result of complications with a hand wound that had left severe nerve damage. During the war, Lieutenant Stanum had found himself in hand-to-hand combat with an Austrian soldier, and in an attempt to protect himself, he’d grabbed the bayonet attached to the other soldier’s gun to steer it away from him. It had sliced deeply into his fingers and palm. The injury caused the four fingers of his right hand to remain drawn tightly closed as if in a fist, and the situation of its tension and position made the wound break open again and again. 

She went over, sitting next to the Lieutenant where he sat on the edge of his bed. He leaned forward, his head pressed against a fist and an open hand, shaking as he cried.

“Lieutenant Stanum?” Belle said. “I hear you don’t want to leave us just yet. Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

“I can’t go home yet,” he replied, muffled. “I just _can’t._ I don’t know how. I can’t look at them, the way they look at me.”

“Have you spoken to Dr. Whale? Has he officially discharged you?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” Stanum took his face from his hands, but he didn’t look at her. He sniffled deeply. “I think so?”

“I’m not certain he has the entire story, then.” Moving slowly, Belle rested a hand at his back. “Don’t worry about leaving. Not today.”

“You’re sure?” he asked as he looked to her.

“I am.” She glanced at the watch on her apron strap. Dr. Whale had gone for the day. He had an appointment with a tailor for his wedding suit at four, and it was half past. She couldn’t speak with him until tomorrow. “I’ll have a talk with the doctor in the morning. You go on about your usual day, Lieutenant. Everything will be just fine.”

He practically sobbed his thanks, and she patted his back before leaving him in the care of one of his own ward’s nurses. Belle went back to Graham where he stood near the front of the room. 

“He’s suffering from a rather large dose of shell shock, I believe,” she told Graham quietly.

Graham frowned a bit. “Shouldn’t it have been caught before now?”

“Not necessarily. Sometimes it takes time to surface. But it seems to have been worsening over the last few weeks.” Belle sighed, looking back. The nurse was busily settling Stanum back in his bed. “Notify Dr. Hopper of the situation, please. Take him the patient’s file. Dr. Hopper should at least have a talk with him. I wouldn’t be in the least surprised if he’s moved for a stay on the east ward.”

“I’ll take the file over straight from here,” Graham said. He pushed the ward door open, allowing Belle to step past him into the corridor. Once they were alone, he looked to her again. “Archie happened to mention there’ll be an inspection sometime next week. Thought you might like to know it.”

She gave a bit of a vexed grumble. “Haven’t we had more than enough ‘inspections’ for the year?”

Graham chuckled. “I believe this one’s meant to be a proper one,” he told her as he took Stanum’s file from the table just outside the doors. “And re-done to be certain Dr. Coughlan didn’t make too great a hash of it.”

She began mentally making a list of things that would need some immediate looking after. It wasn’t a terribly long list, owing to the hard and copious work she’d been doing over the last couple of weeks, but it was enough that she would need to hold a briefing in the morning for her nurses to get a jump on things. The week was more than half over, and there was no predicting when the inspector might surprise them in the next.

Belle parted ways with Graham when he turned to head toward Dr. Hopper’s office and she to her own. When she reached the door, she stopped to listen. She could hear the muted cadence of reading aloud from inside. Being as unobtrusive as she could, seeing as they couldn’t precisely overlook the door opening, she went silently in. She found Rummond and his son snuggled into the near corner of the sofa, Neal’s school reader open so that both could see as Rummond read. The little boy turned to her with a smile, but he looked back down at the page.

“Aren’t you meant to be doing that reading?” she asked Neal.

“We finished what Mrs. Lapointe gave us,” he said. “Papa’s reading some old ones again.”

“Neal showed me a section of poetry he particularly likes.” Rummond grinned up at her. He tilted his head toward the empty cushion next to them. “Do you have time to sit with us?”

“It just so happens that I do.” She placed herself right in the spot he’d gestured to. “Now, what are we reading?”

Neal reached for the book, sliding pages out from under his Papa’s fingers as he turned them in search of something. Finding it, he tapped his finger on the page. “Read this one again?”

“Ah, for the hundredth time?” Rummond teased, his heart feeling all the lighter as Belle snugged herself against his side. 

Neal leaned his head back to look up at his father. “It hasn’t been _that_ many!”

“All right, let’s see. Follow along with your finger,” Rummond told him, though his son’s index finger already waited beneath the first word. “‘ _Tiddlety-Winks, and winks, and winks-_ ”

“No, read it fast! Like you were!”

He pushed his foot against the floor to give Neal a bounce, and he began reading with the quick and excited rhythm that tickled the boy. “‘ _Tiddlety-Winks! And winks, and winks! He sits on the floor and thinks and thinks!_ ”

By the time he’d reached the end of the short poem, Neal had dissolved into a peal of giggles and Belle had her lips pressed together in mirth of her own. “I can see why he prefers you read it that way,” she said.

“Now read the lady bug one?” Neal requested. “Read it for Belle.”

“For Belle, hm?” his Papa asked with a smile.

Neal nodded firmly. “She’ll like that one.”

“All right, here we go,” Rummond said, turning back a few more pages. “‘The Ballad of a Lady Bug’…”


	137. The More the Heart is Sated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompts - _Anonymous said: I wouldn't mind sexy times with a bit of Belle reassuring Rum that he's what she wants. Like, his insecurities rise and Belle decides that she's going to banish them. Thoroughly._
> 
>  _Anonymous said: Better to face the Bullets Rumbelle sexy times... please...._ ]

“You know, I believe it’ll stick this time,” Lieutenant Hargreaves said, giving Rummond a wink. He shook out his tattered robe and folded it before packing it neatly away.

The late winter sun was too dazzling as it rose high enough to shine in through the windows across from Rummond. He’d turned to sit sideways on his bunk, and he had a front row view as the Lieutenant readied himself to leave. Hargreaves’ wife and daughter stood near the open footlocker with Belle joining them while they waited. Mrs. Hargreaves had attempted to help her husband empty his table and footlocker, but he’d shooed her away, telling her that he wanted the satisfaction of packing for himself.

Soon enough, the Lieutenant had finished, and he seemed at loose ends. Rummond stood to give the boy a farewell.

“Finally finished it,” he said, holding the copy of The Voyage Out that Hargreaves had lent him months ago. “Not terrible.”

Jefferson smirked and shook his head. He snatched the book playfully from Rummond’s hand and turned, placing it in his bag and rummaging through for another.

“Try this one, then,” Jefferson told him as he turned back, holding out another book. “See if it’s up to your standards. It’s something of a Western.”

Rummond hummed skeptically as he eyed the orange cover, illustrated with a pair of women and a pair of men divided by a ‘wife wanted’ advertisement.

“The ending is a good one,” the Lieutenant promised. “I know how you are about the sad ones.”

Jefferson took another step forward and wrapped his arms around Rummond, who was left with little to do save return the gesture. He grumbled wordlessly, though a smile pulled at one side of his mouth.

With a pat to the back, Jefferson let him go. “You can return it when you come by sometime. Notice how I slipped that subtle hint to give the book back. So you’ll have to come by.”

Rummond snorted softly. “I did notice that.”

Turning to Belle, he offered her a hug, as well, though he didn’t take the liberty immediately. She stepped toward him in order to accept it.

“Ta, nursie. Going to miss you,” he said, giving her a quick squeeze before letting her go. “You put up with too much nonsense.”

Belle stepped back, giving him a smile. “Oh, you’ll see me, I’m certain.”

“Hopefully in more cheerful surroundings.”

“You might find me tagging along when Rummond returns that book. And I know Alice will be glad to put up with your nonsense at home.”

Mrs. Hargreaves laughed, happier than Belle thought she’d ever seen her. “As long as he’s healthy and home, I’m likely to put up with a great deal.”

Belle was happy for Lieutenant Hargreaves and his family. He’d been suffering badly when he was initially admitted, and he had worked so hard to get better. Like most of the patients on the east ward, he would never be the same person he was before the war and his injuries, but he would learn to rebuild his life around that.

The Lieutenant took his suitcase from the bed. In the middle of a motion that Belle was rather certain had been meant to offer his wife his arm, Grace reached up and grabbed his hand. She smiled brightly up at her father and tugged to get him started toward the door. And that was that - another of them had been deemed hale enough for release.

Rummond returned to his bunk, relieved when clouds crossed the sun enough to soften the light. “I’ll be glad when I can get into a bookstore,” he said as Belle stepped close. “I hate to take anything from Hargreaves, when the boy has so little as it is.”

She gave his shoulder a gentle bump. “It’s made Lieutenant Hargreaves happy, that he’s had something he could share to help you. He enjoyed lending you books as much as you enjoyed reading them.”

“I suppose,” he agreed.

“We’ll have someone new on the ward tomorrow. A young Lieutenant is being moved in from the west ward. He’ll be taking the empty bed in Nurse Halloran’s section.” Belle’s hand rose to stroke the ends of the hair that lay over the back of his collar between her fingertips. “He’s been in and out of here for more than a year, and no one caught signs of shell shock.”

“But you did?” Rummond looked up at her.

She grinned. “I did.”

“And I’m not surprised in the least. We both know how good you are.” He smiled, tired but obviously proud. 

Belle gave his hair a teasing tug. “I have some things to do around the hospital, getting ready for the inspection,” she told him. “I don’t know how often I’ll be able to be on the ward until later in the afternoon.”

“That’s all right. You tend what you need to, love,” he said, reaching for her hand. Bringing it around, he brushed a kiss across the back of her fingers. “I’m not going anywhere just yet.”

She grinned, pulling his hand to her and returning the kiss in kind. “I’ll look in now and then.”

Belle pressed another brief kiss to his knuckles before walking away, looking back to catch him at watching her leave the ward.

She took moments here and there to make her way back down to the ward and peek in. Three out of the four times she had a look, he was fiddling with his playing cards and seeming gloomy. On the fourth, she found him halfheartedly rummaging through the box of clockwork components.

It was nearer dinner time than lunch - which she hadn’t managed to have - when she’d at last cleared enough of her list to sit down and take a rest. She brought with her a sandwich and a couple of biscuits that Zelda had set aside for her, and she sat in her usual spot on Rummond’s bed.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be in for lunch today. I’ve only just stopped,” Belle said as she scooted back on the blanket. “How was yours?”

“Same as it always is. I near cleaned my plate. You can ask Muis.”

“Good,” she said with a smile.

She could see the weight of something on him. It didn’t seem to be throwing him for a terrible loop, but she could tell the difference in his manner. “Are you sad or only tired?”

His brow drew for a moment as he took stock. “Bit of both, I suppose.”

“Do you think it’s because Lieutenant Hargreaves has gone?” she ventured.

Rummond shrugged. He turned the new book over from one hand to the other. “That has something to do with it.”

“You didn’t seem so affected when Jezek left,” Belle gently observed.

“Jezek wasn’t my bunkmate for the full time I’ve been here,” he said as he flipped through a chunk of pages in the middle of the book. There were occasional illustrations. He stopped before he spoiled the story for himself.

Her mouth formed a silent, _oh._ Of course Rummond would miss him. No one could deny that Hargreaves was a presence. She would miss him, herself, but Rummond had lived within six feet of him for the lion’s share of the past year. And he had lost _so many_ people he’d grown to care for over the last few years. Remembering that suddenly pushed his shift in mood into perspective for her.

“It’s all right to miss him,” she said.

It took Rummond a while to respond to her reassurance. “I’d never wish it on him to come back, but…”

“I know.” She rested a hand above his knee, hoping that her touch was a comfort. “Lieutenant Hargreaves became your friend. It’s difficult when friends leave.”

He gave her a sidelong look, a curious smile curling in the corner of his mouth. “Sounds a bit like you’re speaking to me as if I’m Neal.”

Belle hesitated. “It’s a universal sort of chat,” she reasoned, realizing that she _had_ shared a similar talk with his son not too long ago when a school friend’s family moved away.

“Thank you,” Rummond said, laying his book down so that he could cover her hand with his. He wouldn’t have her think that he didn’t appreciate her sympathy. “I know it isn’t as though I won’t see him again. It’s only that it’s a tad lonelier in here, with you out more and him out for good. Nurse Nolan isn’t the best of company.”

She pressed her lips together over the laugh that attempted to surface. “Yes. She’s a good nurse, but not the greatest when it comes to conversation with patients.”

“What of that new nurse you were trying to bring in?” he asked.

“She’ll be reporting for duty next Monday. She wants the position, but she didn’t want to leave her current hospital shorthanded.”

“Sounds like a good egg already.”

“She is.” Belle agreed. “When Astrid comes back, I’m going to adjust the sections - split the room into six rather than four. I can now that I’ll have she and Nurse Lagorio, both.”

“More eyes on the patients, less exhaustion for the nurses.”

“Precisely. And after the inspection, I’ll have a more time in general.” She flexed her fingers against his leg. The smile she gave him had a suggestive tilt to it. “Though, I do have some time _now.”_

She’d been antsy and eager for a few days, but she had been trying to wait for him to say something. Belle wanted _him_ to approach _her._ She wasn’t so certain how long she could stick to that decision, though.

“I’m glad you decided to spend it here,” he said, smiling at her in return.

“I wouldn’t mind spending it elsewhere…” she hinted.

Belle caught the flicker of disappointment in his eyes a split second before he said, “If you need to get back to work, it’s all right.”

He hadn’t caught on. It was as endearing as it was frustrating. She held back a sigh and made another, slightly more obvious attempt.

“Rum, the circumstance I mentioned to you the other day has run its course,” she told him. “The other day, in my office? I was standing on the sofa and hanging a picture, and you came in?”

Rummond lit up, at last getting the picture. “Oh? Has it?”

Her smile broadened, her fingertips pressing nearer the inside of his thigh. There was a hitch in his next breath that sent a tingle through her.

“You- you want to- We could go to-” He cleared his throat softly, his face warming. How had she phrased it that first time they were able to be together? “Would you want to go and have a ‘private little while’ with me?”

“I would. Very much.” Belle slipped her hand away from his leg.

“What about your lunch?” he whispered.

“It’ll keep.” She re-wrapped her food in the napkin she’d brought it from the kitchen in. “Give me a few minutes and meet me in my office?”

He nodded quickly, and she was off like a shot. 

Tomorrow would be hectic, with a supply shipment due and moving Lieutenant Boyce Stanum from the west ward to the east. She had accomplished all she could for today, however, and it was the first truly decent stretch of peaceful time she’d had at work in a couple of weeks. It was time that she wished to use well. Rummond needed some comfort as much as she needed a release of tension. And besides, she missed him - holding him and being held by him. It seemed ridiculous that one thing or another had kept them from it since Christmas.

Rummond waited ten minutes. He was on his feet with a minute left, deciding to include the time it would take to make it from his bunk to her office. Belle was there when he let himself in. Her nurse’s cap with its new bit of lace sewn around the edge sat on her desk with a small pile of bobby pins next to it, and she was laying her apron over the chair so that the pocket wouldn’t lose its contents.

“Lock the door,” she said as she came around the desk, pulling more pins from the back of her hair. 

He turned the lock and gave the handle a try, just to make certain that it caught. By the time he looked to Belle again, her hair was down, falling in heavy waves over her shoulders where she’d shaken it free. The sight made his heart quicken.

She turned on the pretty Emeralite lamp stationed on her desk before moving toward him, reaching past him to switch off the light overhead. The sun was still up and shining through her curtains enough to illuminate the room, but the insinuation that she intended to keep them there after dark was thrilling.

“Go on,” she said, giving him a nudge toward the sofa before bending down to push off her shoes and roll her stockings down. 

He’d found that he had something of a liking for her keeping her stockings on, but he wouldn’t bother her with it. Rummond sat on the far end of the sofa, opposite the side he typically took, but Belle had gestured him along. He discovered why when she tripped some mechanism in the other arm, dropping it so that it laid down flat. 

“More room,” Belle told him with a saucy grin. 

She padded across the carpet on bare feet, curling up next to him for a moment before stretching her legs across his lap. His hands ran along her skin, rubbing her shins and curling under to reach behind. She hummed with delight, her toes curling.

“I can go higher,” he teased, massaging the muscle at the top of one of her calves.

“This is what dreams are made of. I hadn’t realized how tired my legs were.” Belle leaned, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and bringing her face nearer his. “Having my legs rubbed wasn’t what I had planned, though.”

Rummond curled one arm around her back and kissed her, brief and almost chaste, and pulled back with a smile. “Something better than a leg rub?”

“Well… It’s a pretty close race, there.” She brought him back to her for another kiss, the first only whetting her need and making it that much keener.

Belle held him there. She indulged in a long string of short kisses with him - sweet, plucking, sipping kisses that had her pressing herself against him and aching for him to deepen them. She felt his hand move beneath her skirts and up her leg. His fingers grazed over her knee, and she felt the delicious warmth of his palm as he slid it along the inside of her thigh. Rummond’s hand tightened against the sensitive skin there at the same instant that he gave her lip a touch of his tongue, asking permission. The feeling sent a shiver through her, making her teeth close on his lip. 

“I’m sorry,” she gasped in apology before she realized the sound he made wasn’t one of pain. 

A smirk stole across Rummond’s kiss-reddened mouth. His hand slid higher, slowly, into the leg of her drawers, and she thought she might cry from the frustration before he _at last_ reached the apex of her thighs and two long fingers slid inside her. She moved her arms so that she could do more than simply wrap around him, needing to hold on. One hand curled at the back of his neck and the other clenched into a handful of his robe at the shoulder, helping her to rock herself needily into his motions.

Rummond stroked deep into her, thankful that his hands were good for more than watchmaking. Belle tilted her head toward him, and her mouth and nose pressed to his cheek. She was breathless, making soft, desireful sounds _so_ near his ear. He moved his fingers more quickly and kept the pad of his thumb nestled next to the tiny bud at the top of her cleft so that it rubbed there in firm, short motions. She was so delightfully slick, her wetness ran gradually between his fingers. 

He felt her legs go tense an instant before she shuddered, and she dropped her head to his shoulder, burying her face against his neck to muffle her sounds as she orgasmed. Only when her muscles went lax did he take his hand away. His two middle fingers glistened, her wetness having worked its way halfway down his palm and the back of his hand. He started to bring his fingers to his mouth.

Belle grabbed his wrist when she realized what he was about to do, but it took her a moment to clear the fog from her thoughts. “No, the- the contraception I use. It’s partly chemical. You shouldn’t.”

He looked so disappointed that she couldn’t help laughing. “Someday you can, I promise,” she told him, reaching for the handkerchief that she knew was in his robe pocket. She held his hand and wiped it clean before tucking the handkerchief away again. While she was at it, she pulled the half-bow from his robe belt. “Here, out of this.”

“Are we undressing completely this time?” he asked, and she heard a shade of bashfulness in his voice.

“I don’t see why not. There’s likely no place more private in the hospital than this office.”

“Your office,” he said with a smile.

“My office.” She smiled back at him. “Everything off, if you don’t mind it?”

“I don’t mind…” His eyes flicked down to her chest. He’d never seen her in her proper underthings. Of the times they had been together, twice they’d been fully dressed, and the third she had come to him already in her nightclothes. He reached out, his fingers seeking the edges of whatever it was that she wore beneath her dress.

Belle gave him a grin. He had the same curious expression on his face that she’d seen the first time he attempted to figure it out. “Would you like to see? I said once I’d show you.”

Rummond’s ears went pink and he looked at her like a rabbit caught in the garden. After a long moment, he whispered, “Aye.”

While she unbuttoned the front of her dress and stood to push it down, he shrugged his robe back off his shoulders and left it where it fell when he pulled his arms out of it, lying on the sofa under him. Out of her dress, Belle was left in a white silk camisole and matching drawers, both decorated with delicate edgings of embroidered forget-me-nots. 

She went back to kneel up next to him and he turned to face her. Her hands rested on his chest, over his collarbones for a moment before she began slipping open the buttons on the front of his hospital gown. It took some squirming and wriggling to get it out from beneath him, but she pulled it off over his head and dropped it onto the sofa behind her.

“Those, as well,” she said, glancing to his underwear.

Rummond pulled loose the tie, and it was easier work to get out of them than his gown. He felt ill-at-ease with being stripped to the skin first until he caught the appreciative look she gave his lap. 

Belle pulled her camisole off over her head, ruffling her hair so that she had to push it out of her face. She gave the length of it a twist and put it behind her back. She’d revealed the garment that he had wondered about on probably too many occasions.

She took his hand while he stared, kissing his palm and nuzzling into it before directing it to her chest. “You can take it off me. There are hooks at the back.”

She held herself close to him as he put his arms around her, taking a minute or so to work out the closure. “The lady in the shop said things of the sort will eventually replace corsets entirely,” Belle told him when he held it in his hands.

It was a small thing made of white cotton mesh. He could feel only bits of boning at the sides and center of the back, on either side of a series of hooks and eyes that had given even his nimble fingers a challenge.

“Is it as interesting as you thought it would be?” she asked.

He turned it over, looking at it for a moment before he looked up to Belle again, suddenly distracted from it by _her._ “I see something far more interesting…”

With a broad smile, she took the brassiere from his hands and tossed it in with his hospital gown. She quickly rid herself of her drawers and crawled into his lap, shifting herself so that she straddled him, sitting on his thighs. “What’ll you do about those points of interest, then?”

Rummond ran his hands up her bare sides until he could stroke his thumbs over the outer curves of her breasts. The breath that Belle drew when he did encouraged him. He leaned to take her left nipple into his mouth and she slid a hand into his hair, urging him on. Her fingers tightened, holding a handful of his hair in her fist, her other hand going back to curl securely over the back of his neck. She pulled at his scalp just enough that he felt it and his eyes dropped closed. It didn’t help the state of his need _at all._

His hands ran up the outside of her thighs until he cupped the roundness of her bottom, enthralled at how her hips opened up with the way she sat astride him. He moved his hands to her waist to draw her closer, bringing her against him. Letting go of her breast with a soft sound, he placed a kiss to the center of her chest.

Belle let go of his hair, reaching behind him to pull at the sofa arm. His eyes went wide for an instant with the surprise of it being dropped down, as well.

“Now, then,” she said. “That’ll be more comfortable.”

 _“Almost_ a bed, hmm?”

“The best I can do for now.” She patted his chest and moved her hands up to rest against the front of his shoulders, near his neck, steadying herself.

Belle slipped one hand down between them, and he made a quiet, strained sound when she touched him to bring their bodies into alignment. It took almost nothing to nestle them together. She was so ready that he slipped right into her. His hands squeezed hard at her waist and she heard a shaky moan choked back in his throat. 

“All right,” she told him when she could see he’d calmed and regained some hold. “Go ahead, move.”

His eyes practically rolled back in his head when she said it. She swayed when he moved his legs to gain some traction in the sofa cushions, but the first thrust he made up into her took her breath. It jarred her, giving her a bit of a bounce, and oh God, it was _bliss._ She matched the rhythm he fell into, rocking her hips so that she met him on the way up.

Rummond looked up at her, watching her face with his lips parted, soft huffs of air coming from him with each thrust. She leaned down, taking advantage of his expression to kiss him deeply. She licked a stripe along his palate with the tip of her tongue - something he’d done to her countless times. His hips bucked sharply up against her in response, and she released a sob of pleasure into his mouth.

Belle caught her lower lip between her front teeth and leaned further forward, tucking her arms between their bodies. His arms came up to wrap around her, pressing her to him, and she could tell that he held back. She nuzzled into the side of his neck, kissing there, sucking a mark into his skin that she hoped the collar of his gown would cover.

“Come on, sweetheart,” she murmured to him. “That’s it, go on…”

She felt the vibration go through his chest when he groaned at her encouragement. “Belle,” he breathed, and she felt his fingers press into her skin. “Belle…”

His hitches into her grew more intense. She nipped at his skin, and he _groaned._ The angle that she rested at was perfect, the friction in just the right place to drive her higher again, and she closed her eyes. She panted across his skin.

He grunted softly, his arms closing _so_ tightly around her. His movements below her became more frantic, and his hands clutched at her. She felt the muscles of his belly and thighs go rigid as he reached his climax. She found her second a moment after, in the finishing, instinctual twitching of his hips, too spent to do more than lie against him and allow the tensing and release of her muscles to pass through her in waves.

Rummond’s arms loosened and he began petting her back in long, soothing motions as she came down.

“The guest room bed was far more comfortable,” she said, feeling slown with an overabundance of pleasure, giggling a bit.

“Mm,” he hummed. “For one thing, it was lovely to sleep in a bed wide enough to stretch a leg out without it falling off one side or another.”

Belle lifted her head so that she could somewhat see him. “That sounds like a good starting place for criteria for a bed. Room for sprawling out.”

She could see the smile on his face when he understood her meaning. “I’ll keep that in mind.”


	138. Like Nothing Else in the World

Rummond had been waiting most of the night for Belle to arrive. He’d half-awakened a bit before midnight with his leg hurting, and by the time he’d turned over and found a position that lessened the pain, something had occurred to him that he needed to speak with her about. It seemed rather important to address. It wasn’t as though time were pressing, what with him where he was, but the thought still felt urgent.

She arrived before daylight, just as she always did, and with a cup of oversugared tea in hand. After their customary ‘good morning’s and the newer greeting kiss and Belle taking her spot near him on the side of his bunk, he asked.

“I’ve asked you for so much since we’ve known one another,” Rummond began. “You’ve been so kind about everything.”

“I haven’t minded giving any of it.” Belle gave him a patiently fond look. “I love you. There aren’t too many things I wouldn’t do for you.”

The expression of hesitance on his face turned to adoration. “And I love you.”

She leaned in to steal a quick kiss from him, cupping her hand at his jaw and stroking her thumb against his freshly shaven cheek. “What is it that you need?”

“When I’m released, I wondered if- if Neal might stay on with you for a bit after?” he said quietly.

“Of course. I don’t mind at all,” she said, moving her hand to take one of his. “I’d imagined you would want to have him with you as soon as possible, though. And he’ll want to go along with you right away.”

“I know, and I would,” Rummond agreed. Having his son back and living in the same place with him was one of those things he wanted more than anything in the world. But he also wanted to be properly ready, so that Neal could have everything he deserved waiting for him. “I don’t mean a great deal of time - a few days, perhaps a week? I’ll only need a little time to prepare the new flat, set everything to rights.”

Belle smiled, drawing his hand over to her lap. “You want things to be just right.”

He shrugged and returned her smile, no longer surprised at how she’d taken the thought right out of his head. “Dove’s moved our personal things from the house and tenement, and the new flat is furnished, but there’s no children’s furniture. Temporary though it may be, I want him to have a room that’s his own.”

“Of course you do. No one could blame you for that,” she reassured him. “Neal can stay as long as you need.”

“It might be good for him to become accustomed to the idea of another living situation, anyway, wouldn’t it? Rather than being yanked out of home in one day yet again.”

“You’re right. He’s been dragged from post to pillar enough.”

Rummond nodded, his hand turning beneath hers to hold it. “So it’ll be from your house to the new flat, then. And then a house of some manner a few months after, and we’ll never have to uproot him again.”

“At least until he decides it’s time to uproot himself.” She wasn’t certain whether the flutter she felt around her heart came as a result of the way Rummond worried over even the smallest parts of his son’s life or the ‘we’ including her in his plans.

The door opened with a thump. She looked to find Graham hurrying toward her and then past, hissing, _“Inspector!”_ as he went.

“What?” Belle startled at the news. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Of course he swans in on a Friday.”

Rummond squeezed her hand before it slipped away. “You’ll do wonderfully,” he told her. “Show him your hospital. Bowl him over.”

“I save the bowling over for you, thanks.” She grinned before scurrying away.

Under her breath, Belle grumbled to herself, fussing with her cap and apron as she made her way down the corridor to the foyer. Even if she ignored most of the work that Dr. Coughlan had supposedly performed as an excuse to frequent Firefly Hill, this made– Well, she’d lost count of how many so-called ‘inspections’ had been performed in the past six months. Still, if even a slight amount of what Nurse Mills had done had gotten around, Belle couldn’t be surprised that they were getting another so soon after a change of head nurses. 

She rounded the corner into the foyer with as much calm and confidence gathered about her as she could muster. Dr. Whale stood there chatting with another man - presumably the new inspector. He had blonde hair shot heavily with gray, and he wore a dark brown tweed suit, looking as though he knew precisely how important he was.

“Nurse French!” Dr. Whale said when he saw her heading their way. “We were just about to go and find you. This is Dr. Stefan Outterridge, previously administrator for Queen Anne Hospital in Birmingham. Dr. Outterridge, this is Head Nurse French, who has recently taken over the position.”

Belle offered her hand, hoping that it didn’t betray her nerves with a tremble. “Good morning, doctor.”

“Has she, now?” Dr. Outterridge gave her hand a shake.

Dr. Whale gave a nod, rocking cheerfully onto the balls of his feet and back. “She’s done exceptionally well with our hospital here.”

“Well, then, I shall expect to see evidence in support of that boast,” Dr. Outterridge said with an expectant smile.

Dr. Whale gestured with both hands toward the corridors to either side of them. “Which ward would you prefer start with, doctor?” 

“You have a shell shock ward, do you not?” the inspecting doctor asked.

“Yes, sir, we do,” Belle replied before they could speak over top of her head again. “One of the finest in the country.”

Dr. Outterridge tilted his chin up. “I should like to begin there, then.”

“It’s right this way,” she said, heading off in the direction of the east wing without a glance behind her. 

They followed, she gathered by the sound of their footsteps. Dr. Whale remained a step behind, but Dr. Outterridge caught up to her side almost immediately. Nerves made her stomach clench, and it grew worse the nearer they got to the doors.

“Inspection!” she called when they stepped onto the ward.

Belle watched as her handful of east ward nurses scattered - two to the left side of the room and two to the right, spacing themselves just so. Dr. Outterridge stopped next to her.

“How many nurses do you have on this ward?” he asked, looking around at the other four nurses with a critical eye.

“Four, currently,” Belle answered. “Nurses Lucas, Nolan, Humbert, and Halloran.”

Dr. Outterridge gave her a sidelong look. “You do realize that four nurses are too few for any ward, much less a ward populated by shell-shocked patients?”

“I do, doctor. Being so understaffed is an unusual situation. I’ve one nurse on her honeymoon and one whose husband was just recovered after having been held prisoner during the war,” she explained, doing her best to hide how her hackles rose. “They’ll be back on the job soon enough, and a new hire is starting on Monday. We’ve three orderlies permanent to the east wing, as well. I spend a good deal of time on this ward, myself. I assure you, it is ordinarily well-staffed, and we take top notch care of the men here, even as short as we currently are.”

“Nurse French is correct,” Dr. Whale said from her other side. “She has gone to great lengths to keep the east ward staff positions filled with fine professionals.”

Dr. Outterridge nodded and made some manner of note on the clipboard he carried before walking toward the left aisle. Belle turned on her heel to walk alongside him, making certain to keep up with his strides. He took long looks at both patients and nurses, writing further notes as they went along.

He stopped at Captain Lapointe’s bed when they made it around to the right aisle. “When was the last time this patient’s-”

“Captain Lapointe,” Belle corrected firmly.

Dr. Outterridge looked to her, his eyebrows ever so slightly raised. “When was the last time that Captain Lapointe’s bandages here were changed?”

“This morning, just after breakfast. They’re changed each morning and checked in the evenings.”

The doctor walked up next to Lapointe and bent to have a look at them. “And who did the changing?”

“Nurse Halloran,” Belle said, gesturing to her where she stood two beds up. 

Dr. Outterridge turned to look at the other nurse. “A fine job, Nurse Halloran. And how long have you been a nurse?”

“Ten months,” Nurse Halloran said softly.

He raised a hand, cupping it next to his ear. “Pardon?”

She managed a bit louder voice. “Ten months, doctor.”

“Well, I would say you’ve some excellent training,” Dr. Outterridge complimented.

Nurse Halloran smiled over at Belle. “Nurse French trained me.”

He gave Belle a glance and an approving nod before walking back into the aisle and on again. 

She looked to Rummond, smiling, her eyes flashing wide as she doubled her steps for a moment to stay at the doctor’s side.

For a solid two hours, Belle led Dr. Outterridge on a guided tour of the hospital. When the wards and supply closets had been exhausted, the inspecting doctor turned his attention toward Dr. Whale for the rest. She walked with them, unwilling to leave and miss anything important that either might discuss. Belle only left when the pair of men stopped at Dr. Whale’s office door, making it clear that she was not expected inside and had been dismissed from their company.

She was uncertain what to think of Dr. Outterridge. The man didn’t give away very much at all. While he seemed to have a few more criticisms, he also asked for explanations regarding them. He paid her another compliment - this time in regards to the immaculate condition of the hospital’s inventory - but asked after a few medicines that were no longer kept on hand because they had become outdated. It had been almost as though he were testing her.

Dr. Outterridge left in the early afternoon. With no more crossing of paths with Dr. Whale, Belle only knew because the inspector’s automobile had been in the hospital drive as she passed the entrance, and then gone when she glanced out the windows when she went to tell Rummond how the inspection had gone half an hour later.

She’d only just brought an armful of north ward charts destined for her desk back into her office when the door opened again.

“I’m off,” Ruby said, peering in.

Her friend was off early for her grandmother’s dress fitting; Mrs. Lucas would brush off the entire outfit as an unnecessary expense, if not strongly encouraged by her granddaughter.

“Good luck,” Belle wished her. “And try not to make Granny wear red if she doesn’t want.”

Ruby clucked her tongue, putting on an offended look before stepping inside and closing the door behind her. “How are ‘celebrations’ going with your Captain?” she asked as she straightened her coat collar.

Though Belle’s face warmed, she grinned almost madly. “‘Celebrations’ are going just brilliantly, thank you very much.”

“Good!” Ruby exclaimed with a bright smile of her own. “I’d bet having an office takes most of the gamble out of it, though.”

Belle laughed, shaking her head. “The risk of being caught wears thin, particularly when you have something to lose if the wrong person bumbles in.”

“That’s where being engaged to the administrator comes in handy,” Ruby said, giving her a wink. She raised her left hand and went around the desk, wiggling her fingers. “I keep expecting you to turn up with one of these.”

“There are other things to see to first.” Belle set her folders on the desk and fished a piece of toffee from her apron pocket, fiddling with the paper. “He and Neal have lost so much. I think he wants to be prepared, nothing up in the air, and all that.”

“He will. The way he looks at you?” Ruby nodded, smiling more softly at her. “He will.”

Even as sure as Belle was about Rummond, it was nice to hear someone else so certain. “We’ve talked about it.”

“Good,” Ruby said again.

“Don’t say anything to him about it. I don’t want him pushed or made to think I’m hurrying him.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“I’m serious, Ruby.”

“So am I! Not a word,” she promised. “When the time comes, if you need help with things, I feel like an expert in all of this planning business.”

“I may take you up on that. I find myself more excited by the prospect of a wedding this time.” Belle smiled to herself. “I suppose the difference in the person figures into it.”

“And if you need honeymoon ideas-”

“Rummond and I will take care of the honeymoon plans on our own.”

“I wasn’t talking about the destination.” Ruby smirked. 

Belle swatted at the back of her friend’s bright red coat as she hopped toward the door with a laugh.

“By the by,” Ruby began, turning back. “Did you know that Dr. Outterridge’s son-in-law is a patient here?”

Belle blinked. “I didn’t. Who is he?”

“Commander Phillip Prinsen, from our ward,” she said. “Victor mentioned it. He told me that Dr. Outterridge was prepared to give the hospital a hell of a shakeup after the things he’d learned about Nurse Mills.”

“Oh…” Belle’s stomach dropped.

“But he didn’t have a bad thing to say about you. The hospital is to receive a glowing report, as well, according to Victor. Dr. Outterridge informed him of as much before leaving,” Ruby told her, smiling brightly as she flounced out.

Belle stood staring at the closed office door for a moment before shaking herself out of the daze that Ruby’s news had given her. She sat down in her chair with a bounce, feeling as though she might take flight in her giddiness.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

Neal trimmed carefully at a piece of the pretty paper lace that his teacher had handed out to the class. He measured it against the paper that he’d cut into the shape of a heart, making certain that it would fit around the side.

Instead of their usual art lesson at the end of the day, Mrs. Lapointe had surprised them with the makings for a project: colored paper and foil, paper lace, spangles, and yarn. They were instructed to make presents for their mothers. 

“You can make one for your father, if you want,” Mrs. Lapointe had told him when she approached his desk to offer him a choice of papers, squatting down next to him so that she could speak softly.

He hadn’t said anything, only pointing to the blue when she held the stack of paper out.

“Do we have to wait until Sunday to give it?” asked a girl from across the room.

“You can give them anytime you wish,” Mrs. Lapointe responded, stopping to keep one of her students from upending his bottle of glue. “Use the brush, Andrew, dear.”

Neal chose golden spangles to glue to the front, and he did his best to keep the glue on the more solid parts of the lace as he attached it, using just enough to make it stick so that it didn’t soak through and wrinkle the paper. He wanted it to stay as pretty as possible.

When the rest was done, he wrote on the front, taking care to make his letters neat and large. He drew flowers around them and took out his crayons to color them in. The glue was dry by the time they were dismissed. Neal sandwiched the present between two books and tucked them into his bookbag.

There were more mums than usual there when he went outside. Neal stood quietly near the gate, his classmates calling out _“Mum!”_ and _“Mummy!”_ and _“Mama!”_ as they eagerly handed over the presents they’d made, unable to wait for Sunday morning. He watched the other children receive hugs and kisses and ‘I love you’s. Horatio was parked right outside the gate, waiting with the door open just as he always did, but Neal couldn’t make himself stop looking. He was suddenly unsure whether Belle would even want what he’d made.

He didn’t miss his Mum. Not anymore. When he thought of her, he thought about what it was like to be around her, and he didn’t want that. He didn’t want her to come back. Not ever. But watching his classmates’ mothers receive their presents made him feel _something,_ and he wasn’t sure what.

Neal left the present in his bookbag when they got home. He took his books back downstairs to the kitchen to do his work and took them back up when it was finished, setting them on the desk next to his bag. Belle arrived home just before dinner was ready, and she had a hug for him when he met her at the front door. The present he’d made stayed on his mind.

It was Belle who took him upstairs to help him get ready for bed. She watched as he washed his face and brushed his teeth, and she helped him button up his pajama top. She sat in the rocking chair with him and read two chapters of the book they had been reading. It made him later being tucked in, but she said it was all right, as it was Friday. 

“Belle?” he said when she started to leave his room.

She was just about to switch the light off when he stopped her. “What is it, darling?”

Neal sat up and pushed his covers off, climbing down from the bed. Belle watched as he went bashfully to the desk and opened the flap of his bookbag, taking something out. He crossed back to her and, with his head ducked, he offered her the bit of lace-edged blue paper. When she took it, he hurried back to the bedside.

Her breath caught when she read the slightly lopsided message. _Happy Mother’s Day._

She hadn’t remembered. It was something that her father and the house staff never remarked upon. Neal’s creation took her by surprise.

“You don’t have to take it if it makes you sad,” he said, tilting his head and raising his shoulder until it touched his cheek. He looked at her from the corner of his eye.

“No, darling. I love it,” she said, walking over to him. She wasn’t aware of the tears on her face until his words drew her attention to them. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

Belle sat on the narrow bed and set his present aside on the table so that she could lift him onto her lap. She wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tightly to her.

All at once, he understood what it was that he felt when he watched his classmates and their mothers. He understood, but it didn’t feel like something that he could tell. Just because she liked his present, that didn’t mean she wanted to _be_ his mother.

“Belle?” he murmured.

He felt her soft hum when she answered. “Hm?”

Belle looked at him as he sat back, squirming and chewing on the inside of his cheek. He seemed conflicted about something, his face drawn.

“What’s the matter?” she asked gently.

“Nothing the matter,” he said. After a bit longer, he looked up at her. “I love you.”

She smiled in wonder at the little boy in her arms. She’d watched him gather the courage to say it without even realizing.

“You know what?” Belle said, brushing ruffled curls back from his forehead. “I love you, too.”

Neal’s worried expression gave way to one of the sunniest smiles she’d seen on him, and he buried his face in the front of her dress.

“I love you _so_ much,” she told him, rocking him a little. She held him until he fell asleep and for a good while after, aching behind her breastbone with more love than she could hope to put words to.


	139. Living Forwards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompt - _ChrissyKP said: It’d be funny if Neal managed to smuggle a lizard or two into the hospital._ XD ]

The weather had _at last_ turned a little warmer. Belle had found it comfortable enough to take her bicycle to work in the latter half of the week, and though she neglected gloves for herself on Sunday, she bundled Neal up just the same before they left for the hospital.

He took off just before they walked out the door, running toward the hallway that went along the staircase. He’d taken so long that she went to look for him, and she found him fiddling with his coat.

“Neal? It’s time to go,” she said, waving her hand to beckon him on. “Carry the basket for me?”

He trotted back to her. “What sort of dessert is there?” 

“You are your Papa made over, aren’t you?” she said, and he grinned up at her as he took the picnic basket, carrying it in front of him with both hands. “Almond cake. With cherry preserves inside.”

“Could we have dessert first again?” The look on his face told her that he knew the answer he was likely to receive.

Belle did her best to hold back the smile that curled at her lips. “No, but it’ll taste just as good after lunch.”

“Horatio fixed the wheel up,” Neal said as he climbed into the tourer before her. 

She smiled, having noticed him stopping to look at it. “He certainly did.”

He set the basket on the floor next to his feet, waiting for her to get in beside him. “I finished my arithmetic. All by myself,” he told her when Horatio had closed the door, clearly proud of himself.

Belle slipped an arm around Neal, snugging him against her side. “That’s wonderful!”

“I brought it with my drawings so Papa can look at it. To make sure it’s right.”

“I know he’ll be glad to look it over.”

“There’s insects and things living in the garden again,” Neal said happily as they headed out of the drive. “I didn’t see big animals yet, but there are little ones like bugs.”

He was sorting together good things, Belle realized. “Oh? Have you seen any of your lizards return?”

He nodded quickly. “I saw some!”

She listened as he went on most of the way to the hospital, giving him encouraging responses while he chattered about school and his classmates, Mrs. Potts, the back garden, how he’d seen Lumiere and Babette kissing in one of the parlors, and Christopher, whose attitude had somewhat mellowed again without the influence of his mother.

Neal’s chatter only slowed when they pulled up next to the hospital steps. She waited while he got out, leaning back in to pull the picnic basket to the edge so that he could lift it.

He looked up at Horatio before turning to follow Belle. “Don’t have a flat tire today!” he said cheerfully, in a tone that sounded more like well wishes than an instruction.

The driver’s mustache twitched in his amusement. “I shall endeavor not to, young sir.”

Belle shook her head and smiled as Neal passed her to climb the steps. He was in a funny mood this morning. She couldn’t point out just why, but he did seem to be enjoying himself. She watched him disappear through the ward doors, then stepped into her office to leave her coat before going back down to make a cup of tea.

“Oh, it smells lovely in here!” she said as she stepped into the kitchen.

“If you’ll come back in twenty minutes, I’ll have a few popovers ready,” Zelda told her with a sly grin. “I may be testing a recipe.”

“You won’t mind sharing?”

“As long as you give me an opinion on them, I’ll happily share.”

“I’ll have three opinions for you, in that case,” Belle said, placing the kettle on the stove and taking a cup from the cupboard. “I can’t imagine they won’t be wonderful.”

Zelda looked as if she itched to look into the oven and held herself back from it. “Honest opinions,” she clarified. “Sparing feelings doesn’t help a gummy popover.”

Belle quickly prepared the tea she’d gone for, this time remembering to stop herself from adding in too much sugar. It had become such a habit that she often forgot. Rummond, bless him, never said a word, no matter how terribly sweet it was. 

She glanced down at her watch to check the time as she left, to make certain she’d be back while the popovers were still nice and hot.

“You needn’t bring me tea every morning,” Rummond said as she set the cup down, and he tilted his head back when she leaned for a kiss.

“I don’t mind at all bringing you a cup of tea,” she told him, catching another kiss from his lips before she stepped back to sit on the bed, tucking one leg beneath her. “There’ll be a time before too long that I won’t get to bring you tea every morning.”

“Here, Papa, look,” Neal said, separating the sheets with his arithmetic assignment from his drawings.

“I suppose that’s the tradeoff, isn’t it?” He smiled, taking the pieces of notepad paper that his son held out to him. “Perhaps I’ll bring _you_ something every morning, then.”

She would miss him being just there on the ward where she could walk in and sit next to him, but Rummond leaving the hospital was what they’d been working toward. “I’ll be content with you, yourself, if I can see you every day.”

“We’ll make certain of that,” he said as he reached over to lay his hand on her knee.

Neal patted his father’s arm, then pulled it away by his gown sleeve. “Papa, check and make sure it’s right?”

“I’m looking,” Rummond told him with a chuckle.

Belle grabbed Neal up, bringing a surprised squawk from the boy, and pressed a loud kiss to his cheek. “While you’re doing that, I have to run back down to the kitchen,” she said, setting Neal onto the blanket again. “I’ve been told there will be something tasty we can have a bit of right about now.”

After a good looking over, Rummond returned the pages that his son gave him. “I don’t find a single misfigure,” he said, ruffling the boy’s hair. “You’re doing so well in your schoolwork. I’m proud of you.”

Neal beamed, taking the papers and hopping down from the bed to put them in the picnic basket for safekeeping. “I brought something else to show you.”

Rather than climbing back onto the bunk, Neal walked over next to his father and stopped, looking down and wiggling the fingers of one hand into his left waistcoat pocket.

“What have you got there?” his Papa asked.

Neal brought something carefully out, and it took Rummond a moment to realize that the small green thing poking out of the side of the boy’s fist was a lizard’s head.

“Oh, duckling, no,” he whispered, but he laughed and cupped his hands around his son’s. “You brought it from the garden?”

“Yep!” Neal chirped, and he let the lizard go in his Papa’s hand.

To Rummond’s surprise, he suddenly had the wiggling creature in his grasp. He watched as Neal reached into his waistcoat pocket again. “You brought more than one?”

Neal nodded as he took out a second. “They’re all different!”

Almost immediately, it slipped between Neal’s fingers. The little boy made a valiant attempt to catch it, but it was too quick. It scampered along Neal’s cuff and made a desperate, sprawling leap to the tile, scooting away beneath his father’s bed. He dropped to the floor in pursuit.

A few seconds later, Rummond heard a quiet, “Uh-oh.”

He supposed it was inevitable that Belle returned at precisely that moment. She came back in, holding a napkin wrapped around the something she’d gone to fetch from the kitchen. Rummond dropped his hands to his lap, still held around the tiny reptile.

It was at the tip of Belle’s tongue to ask where Neal had gone when he popped up from the floor. “Are we playing a game?” she asked, setting the napkin-covered popovers on the bedside table.

Then she noticed the look Neal had about him. He had absolutely no face at all for lies. She looked from him to his father’s hands cupped together, and Rummond’s expression was no better than his son’s. They both appeared as though they’d been caught at something, and she began to put together a suspicion what that might be.

“What are you holding?” she asked, then tilted her head and glancing to the floor where Neal had been when she came in. “What were you looking for?”

Rummond cleared his throat.

Neal’s face went through a journey of surprise, concern, and some desperate thought while he attempted to come up with an answer.

“Neal?” she said.

He made a sound akin to a door with hinges in need of oiling before at last confessing. “Lizard…”

“A lizard?” Belle asked. “Where did it come from?”

“The garden.”

“You caught a lizard? Before we left?”

Neal gave an enthusiastic nod. “Two!”

“And that would be why you were on the floor,” she gathered quickly then. 

“I caught them yesterday before dinner,” Neal explained. “I put them under a bowl with some grass, and I went and got them and put them in my pocket this morning.”

Now his furtive behavior before they left home made more sense. “Darling, take them outside and let them go.”

“But they’ll be lost here,” he said, a forlorn look on his small face. “They’re too far from home.”

There was no arguing with Neal’s eyes and reasoning. She sighed, reaching out to fuss affectionately with one of his cowlicks. “You’re right. They should go back home, shouldn’t they? Go down to the kitchen and ask Miss Rampion for a jam jar.”

He ran off to do as Belle said, and she leveled a look at Rummond. “You have a lizard in your hands, don’t you?”

Rummond hesitated. “I might,” he said as though it weren’t perfectly obvious.

“And the other escaped,” Belle surmised.

“Might have?” He pulled a sheepish face. “He’ll find it.”

“Oh, I’m certain _someone_ will find it,” she said as she sat down next to him. “And I’m fairly sure we’ll know when.”

“Nurse Nolan?” Belle caught the other nurse as she went by, headed for the back of the ward. “Keep an eye out for a garden lizard. To be captured safely, not squashed or otherwise harmed. It belongs to Neal.”

“I’ll let everyone know,” Nurse Nolan said before continuing on.

With a teasing grin, Rummond held his hands out to her. “Don’t suppose you’d like to hold onto this one?”

“No, thank you,” she declined with a laugh.

Rummond had the urge to peer in at the lizard, but he resisted. They didn’t need two running loose around the hospital. “I think I’m going to explain to Neal today about how we’ve decided to work out living arrangements.”

Belle’s eyebrows rose a little. “He should know ahead of time. It would be unfair to spring it on him just as you’re released,” she agreed. “Let him enjoy a few bites of popover first, though. He’s apt to not eat until lunchtime comes around, if he becomes upset.”

“That’s what you brought back?” he asked. “Popovers?”

“Mmhm. Zelda is trying the recipe and offered a couple in exchange for opinions.”

“Haven’t had one in… years.”

“Let’s get the lizards in the jar first,” she said, smiling over at him. “And your hands washed. Both of you.”

Neal returned with the glass jar held securely to his chest. “Miss Rampion says I can keep the jar!”

“You told her what you needed it for, huh?” Belle asked.

He nodded and held the jam jar out to his Papa. Belle took it, unlatching the wire on top and taking off the lid. She held it so that Rummond could deposit the lizard still in his possession into it, and then replaced the cover immediately. Neal leaned to look in at the lizard, which moved to stand with its front feet on the wall of the jar.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll take you home and let you out in the garden tonight.”

Ariel, sitting on Commander Strand’s bedside for a chat before breakfast, squealed and flung herself into his lap. “It was on my apron! Right across my apron!”

There was a bit more commotion as the Commander slapped a cupped hand down on his blankets a couple of times, increasingly higher and nearer himself. “Young Mr. Gold,” he called. “I believe I have something that belongs to you.”

“You found him!” Neal crowed, and he went running across the aisle.

Belle turned to watch Strand transfer the lizard carefully into the little boy’s waiting hands while Ariel looked on warily.

“Commander Strand said he owed me one,” Neal said when he came back, his hands held together. “He caught my lizard, why does he owe me?”

Rummond snickered softly and took the already inhabited jar from his table. “I believe he only means that he was happy to meet such a nice lizard specimen.”

“All right,” Belle said before Neal could think too hard about that. “They’re safe in their jar now. Go and wash your hands.”

Rummond took his cane and moved to follow his son. “Come on, then. Let’s go wash off the great outdoors.”

Belle leaned to take the napkin from his table and set it on her lap, shifting herself farther back onto the bed while she waited for them. When they’d returned, she patted the covers for Neal to sit next to her.

“Have you had these before?” she asked, giving him one of the big, airy rolls when he and his father had gotten settled.

Neal looked at it, pushing his index finger down through the top. “What is it?”

“It’s called a popover. Break it open,” Belle said.

He tore the bread, looking into the hollow of it. “It’s empty! Where does the inside go to?”

Rummond accepted the other popover when Belle offered it. Tearing it in half, he offered the bigger piece back to her. “They make steam when they cook, and the steam makes them puff up. Like blowing air into your cheeks,” he explained, illustrating by doing just that.

Neal laughed at his Papa’s face, and he poked a bite of bread into his mouth. Apparently enjoying it, he poked in another bite before the first was gone.

“I need some grass for my lizards,” Neal said as he neared the end of his popover. “They need to be comfortable until they get home.”

“You and your Papa can go out and see to that in a little while,” Belle told him. “We have something to talk about with you first.”

She waited until he’d finished, and she folded the napkin into a square to tuck into her pocket while she tried to decide how she might begin. When she gave Rummond a bit of a lost look, he rescued her.

“We should talk about how things are going to go when I’m let out of hospital,” he said, giving his son’s shin a solid pat.

“Will it be soon?” Neal asked, anticipation written in every bit of the way his posture perked up.

“Sometime soon, but I can’t point out the day just yet. What we need to discuss is you and Belle and myself,” Rummond said gently. “For a little while, after I leave the hospital, I thought perhaps you should consider staying on with Belle.”

Panic flashed through Neal’s eyes, then faded from them as his small shoulders sagged in resignation. “You don’t want me to go with you,” he said softly.

 _“Yes,”_ Rummond told him firmly. “Yes, I do. More than anything.” He leaned, reaching for his son and bringing the boy over to sit in his lap. “I want you to go with me as soon as I can get everything prepared for you. There are some things I need to do, though.”

“It’s a bit like how Mrs. Potts doesn’t want anyone eating from the stove before dinner is ready and on the table,” Belle explained when Neal went on looking gloomy. She took his hand in hers. “She does it because she wants everything to be safe and just right for us when it’s time. Your Papa is doing something similar. He wants you there with him badly, but he wants your new flat to be prepared just right for you.”

Neal looked to his father with that answer. “Then can’t Belle go with us?”

Rummond gave his son’s back a comforting rub. “Not just yet, but-”

“I want us all together!” Neal declared none too quietly. 

“Well, Belle and I, we’ll need to be married before _all_ of us can live together,” Rummond reasoned.

He looked to Belle. “Get married!”

Rummond and Belle exchanged a smile over Neal’s head. “We’re working on that,” he said. “I’ve got to leave the hospital first, though. And then I need to find a place for all of us to live. You can help me with that, can’t you?”

Neal’s mouth twisted to one side as he looked at his Papa and then Belle again. “How long will that take?”

“I’m not certain about the hospital part. Not just yet. But I’ve a flat for you and I to stay in until we find a house of our own,” Rummond explained once more. “You and I will stay in the flat until Belle and I get married. Then we’ll move into the house _you’re_ going to help me find, all three of us at once. How does that sound?”

“Will I see you every day until I come with you to the flat?” Neal asked.

“Every single day,” his Papa promised.

“Will I still see Belle every day after that?”

Rummond smiled. “I imagine you’ll see her just about as often as I do, which will be _quite_ a lot.”

“Almost every day,” Belle said, giving Neal’s hand a little squeeze. “Probably even as often as you see me now.”

Neal gave a soft sound of distress at the upheaval he still felt.

“We don’t have to talk more about it today,” Rummond said, hoping to soothe him. “Everything will be all right.”

“Better than all right,” Belle added. “We’re going to get everything fixed up the way we all want it, and we’ll be together. You, and your Papa, and myself, in the same house. All together.”

“Don’t worry yourself about it, duckling,” Rummond told him, wrapping his son up in his arms.

Neal nodded, and he tucked himself against his Papa’s chest. It would be all right. If his Papa and Belle said so, it would be all right.


	140. To Love Without Beginning or End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(Prompts listed at the end, because there’s a whole chunk of them.)_
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> _(Also, if you’ve ever wondered wth these chapter titles come from, I[posted that list this week](http://ishtarelisheba.tumblr.com/post/162024301907/btftb-title-quotes).)_

“Here, you sit here with your friends. They’ll be nice. You’re going to have some cake and biscuits, and Mrs. Potts made sandwiches, and maybe there’ll be some root beer, if you be good. No, we can’t have dessert before lunch. You’ll fill up on sweets and not have room for real food, and you need real food in your tummy if you’re going to grow!”

Mrs. Potts could hear the boy prattling nineteen to the dozen from the top of the stairs when she went up to fetch him for tea. He was home for the day, thanks to a burst pipe at the school the night before, and he sounded to be making the most of his free time. A combination of amusement and curiosity had her pausing outside of his half-open door to listen. She leaned to peer in.

She found him sat on the floor next to the bed, a veritable herd of Belle’s old toys in front of him. They were joined by the few of his own he’d acquired. The crocodile his father had given him sat to one side. Philippe, whom Mrs. Potts knew well from first Belle carrying him about and now Neal, lay next to him with a tea towel folded over to serve as bedding. She’d been wondering where that tea towel had gone off to.

“You have to stay in bed to get better,” Neal told Philippe. “Mama is a nurse, and she knows how to make people better, so you have to listen. Your friends will bring you food from the party, but you can’t get out of bed yet.”

He tucked the tea towel snugly around the teddy bear and patted its belly before looking at the gathering of dolls and stuffed animals. “Now, _shhh._ You can have fun without being loud. Let Fleep rest so he can be better in time for the wedding. Okay?”

Mrs. Potts pressed her hand over her mouth to quiet her chuckle as he chattered earnestly on.

“It’s okay, he won’t eat you. He doesn’t really eat people.” Neal gave the crocodile’s head a pet. “Only soft food. He doesn’t have real teeth.”

One of the dolls fell over, and he kneeled up to fix it. “The wedding will be so pretty, and we’ll all be a family after it. Papa and Mama promised. All together in one house.” He turned to a doll with its blonde hair in ringlets, and he nodded as though it had said something to him. “Yup, for good. I don’t know if you can come, too… You’ll have to ask Mama about that, because you live here I think.”

The little boy’s words gave Mrs. Potts pause. Belle hadn’t mentioned a wedding just yet. And Neal calling Belle ‘mama’ - even during play - was also new, as far as she was aware. She quickly decided to stay out of it. She would stay well out of that one. Belle would have an entertaining time of navigating that, and she’d be interested to see it, but she wasn’t sticking a toe of her own in that particular pond.

“Go to sleep. It’s okay.” Neal placed the teddy bear’s hand near its face. “You don’t have to stop sucking your thumb if it makes you feel better. Dr. Hopper told me that.”

She tapped at the door before pushing it farther open. “Neal, dear, tea is ready. You can eat down in the kitchen, if you’d like.”

He stood and stepped carefully over the little company of toys he had arranged so that he didn’t disturb them. “Mr. Maurice isn’t having tea?”

“Mr. Maurice is out and about today with business doings and might be late home.” She wondered if Neal might have another name for Belle’s father before long, now. The idea of the man’s reaction to that had her holding back a snicker.

“Will you eat with me?” Neal asked.

“Well, I’ll be seeing to getting dinner started, but I’ll be there in the kitchen.”

He took her hand and she looked down, finding herself confronted with that pair of great brown eyes. It was a good thing all the boy ever asked were things as simple as sitting down with him for a meal.

“All right, I’ll have a bite with you,” she said. “I’ll be up and down, though. As I told you, there’s dinner to prepare.”

“What are we having? For tea?”

“I figured it’s still cool enough out for a nice, belly-warming soup.”

“Soup sounds good.” Neal nodded, keeping hold of her hand as they went back downstairs. “And hot cocoa?”

Mrs. Potts stopped so that he could make a hop down from the stair landing. “Hot cocoa? Hmm. We may see about that.”

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

Neal didn’t think he had _ever_ been so sleepy. He’d had a big day. Mrs. Potts had taken him to the park for a little while after tea, while Josephine made bread rolls and kept an eye on the roast. When they got home, he hadn’t had time for a nap before Chip asked him to play. They’d ended up racing back and forth across in front of the house. Neal hadn’t won a single race, but it had felt good to run as hard as he could with the wind in his face and his arms open wide, pretending he was flying like his Papa. When they went back inside, it was almost dinnertime, and he waited on the stairs for the few minutes it took Belle to come home after Horatio left to fetch her.

He climbed up and snuggled in beside her on the settee while she read after dinner. Being full of food made him even sleepier, and all he wanted was to sit with Belle until time to go up to bed.

Neal thought happily about how his Papa and Belle were talking about getting married. He wondered if maybe the way he’d asked them about getting married had made them finally decide to. They said it would be a while, and he tried not to think about all the other things they said when they had a talk on visitor’s day, but they had talked about it all _together._

Maybe someday she would let him call her ‘mama.’ The thought made him feel like he was too small to take a big enough breath. It made him feel good to practice saying it while he played in his room or when he imagined telling her something. He wasn’t ready to say it to her, though, and especially not in front of anyone else. The word felt too wrapped up in feelings to let anyone else hear it yet.

Belle sat with her legs curled beneath her so that her lap was propped up high enough to hold her book at just the right angle. She received a disapproving look every time Mrs. Potts came into the room, but her father was in his study, Neal was warm and quiet, and she was comfortable. 

She played with the watch that Rummond had given her as she read, glad that the medical journal she held open with one hand was the previous month’s. Her attention wavered in and out. Anyone accusing her of daydreaming wouldn’t have been wrong. She went back and forth between winding the chain around her fingers and stroking her fingertips over the enameled detailing on the watch case. 

“Belle, dear,” Mrs. Potts said as she stepped into the sitting room to take a stray teacup and Maurice’s after dinner brandy glass. “Do you have need of anything? I’m about to begin getting the kitchen ready for the morning.”

“I don’t.” Belle looked to the little boy burrowed into her side. “Neal, do you need anything from the kitchen?”

He shook his head, looking as though he could hardly keep his eyes open.

“We’re fine for the night. Thank you,” she said, and Mrs. Potts grinned at the pair of them.

Belle heard Neal snuffle sleepily and sigh. He rubbed his face against her arm, and she slowly moved to curl it around him.

“What time?” he murmured.

“Half past eight,” she told him, snugging him close. He needed a bath, but he looked as though he would be long asleep before she could so much as get him upstairs.

“Not nine yet?” Neal gave a soft, fretful sound. “Mama, I’m ready for bed.”

Belle’s mouth fell open and she looked to Mrs. Potts, who was staring back at her with lips formed into a very small O. It took a moment longer for Neal to realize what he’d said, and when he did, he sat bolt upright and froze. Belle turned back to him, neither of them without a little shock in their eyes.

“I’m sorry!” he squeaked, looking as though he expected someone to be upset with him.

“It’s all right,” she told him at almost the same instant. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Mrs. Potts scuttle from the sitting room, closing the door after her. Belle was rather certain that was as far as she’d gone, though.

She beckoned a hand at him with a gentle motion, encouraging him to come back and sit close to her again. He hadn’t realized how he moved away, but he squirmed back over to her.

He was afraid of what Belle and his Papa both might say about what he’d said. What if she didn’t want to be his Mama? What if calling her that would make his Papa angry, since he already had a Mum once? What if his Mum found out and it made _her_ angry? Neal tucked his chin against his chest.

“Neal, darling, it’s all right,” Belle whispered to him. 

“I didn’t mean to say it,” he said, very nearly speaking into his shirt collar. “I didn’t mean to say out loud.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I wanted you to be Mama, but I didn’t mean to say it.”

She reached out, cupping her hands over his and bringing them together on his knees. He looked far too small and alone, the way he drew in on himself. “I would love to be your Mama, if you want me to be. But it isn’t up to me. Not completely. And I’m not sure whether you should call me that _just_ yet.”

Neal nodded, looking down at her hands where they held and covered up his. “That’s what I thought, too.”

“I feel as though that’s something you and I need to talk over with your father.”

“But you love Papa?”

She lifted a hand, running it over his ruffled hair, then touched his cheek. He was exhausted and flustered, and he just seemed to have frightened himself out of a year’s growth with a single misspoken word. He needed reassurances. Those, at least, she could give. “Of course I do. Very, very much. And I love you.”

“What’s wrong with calling you that, then? Papas and mamas love each other,” Neal reasoned.

“There’s nothing _wrong_ with it,” she assured him. “Nothing wrong at all. It’s only that I think we should wait a little longer and have a talk about it, all three of us. What do you think of that?”

He nodded, still feeling a bit sad about it. She hadn’t been angry when he slipped, though. She hadn’t been upset. And she’d said she would love to be his Mama. They just had to talk more. That wasn’t a ‘no.’ Neal shifted up onto his knees and put his arms around Belle’s neck. She hugged him back soundly, squeezing him until he couldn’t help a tired giggle escaping.

“I love you, too,” he said, patting her the way she and his Papa patted his back at the end of a hug.

Belle smiled, patting him in return and letting him go. She wasn’t at all certain how to broach the subject with Rummond, but she supposed it must have been an inevitable conversation.

She set the medical journal aside and put her feet on the floor, offering Neal her hand. “Come on, let’s get you into a warm bath. We’ll get you nice and clean, into pajamas, and read until you fall asleep. How does that sound?”

“We’re almost done with Anne.” He put his hand in hers and slid down from the cushion.

Belle leaned to drop a kiss on top of his head before she stood. Oh yes, he definitely needed that bath. “You’ll simply have to help me choose another, then.”

“Can we read the garden book next? The one with the girl and flowers on the cover?” Neal asked.

“We most certainly can,” she agreed. “You find it on the shelf while I draw your bath.”

He held tight to Belle’s hand and climbed the steps one at a time next to her, not quite feeling as if he had any more hops left in him tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompts - _Anonymous said: Neal's view of Belle's role in his life has changed. He wants to call her mummy (or mama, different from his 'mum') but is afraid to do so, and therefore only uses it while playing make believe games. Mrs Potts or Belle overhears and is conflicted._
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> _Anonymous said: Does BtFtB!Bae every accidentally call Belle mom?_
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> _beliza-fryler said: (this can be a prompt or a question, I don't mind) does Bae ever call Belle "Mum" or some variation in BtFtB?_
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> _Anonymous said: can BTFTB!Neal call Belle "mom" or something please??]_
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> (I’ve had this chapter planned since Neal first turned up, but I wanted to list these prompts anyway. Because holy crap, you guys. lol)


	141. All in All

“I’ve something I would like you to read,” Dr. Hopper said, coming around from his desk with a piece of paper taken from his bag. 

“Aloud, or-?” Rummond, having only just gotten sat down, took the offered page.

“To yourself is fine.” The doctor returned to his desk and shuffled a few files together before putting them away. “I’d like to hear your thoughts on it when you’ve finished.”

Rummond cleared his throat, his brow furrowing as he concentrated on the small type. It was a story - an account of an unnamed boy who had volunteered for the British Expeditionary Force in 1914, just after they’d joined the fray. He was a young engineer who had been sent to France, right to the front. The boy survived everything from mustard gas to suicide attacks on the trenches. At one point, after a mortar attack, he’d been buried in a trench with his men for four days, the only survivor when the regiment arrived to sort out and bury the dead.

The boy had been sent directly back to the front line. He collapsed in fits of tremors the following April, and was sent to a hospital for two months of treatment before being returned to the battlefield. Among the fighting he saw, the young engineer took part in the Somme Offensive. After two years in battle, ragged and shell shocked, he broke down and refused to go back into the trenches. One of his superiors physically dragged him, struggling, until he broke away and ran.

He had been captured quickly and court martialed, charged with cowardice, and sentenced to death. The young engineer was executed by firing squad only a few days later.

Rummond lowered the paper.

“Can you tell me what your thoughts are?” the doctor asked.

He shook his head a bit, giving a shrug.

Dr. Hopper prodded gently for a response. “How do you feel about what you’ve read there?”

“Well, not happy.” Rummond frowned down at the story and asked quietly, “Is this true? Was the boy real?”

“He was,” the doctor confirmed. “Much of the detail was taken from letters that he wrote to his mother, and that she in turn donated to research into shell-shock.”

“Jesus,” Rummond muttered.

“Do you feel that the young man was a coward?”

His patient’s answer was immediate. “No. Of course not. They ground him down to a nub and kept sending him back into that horror. The boy did all he could do under the circumstances. The things he suffered and saw, it isn’t his fault he broke. He should have been given help, rather than being shoved back into trench after trench.”

Dr. Hopper gave him a meaningful look, as though he’d just happened across some insight. It took Rummond a moment to find the similarities, but he caught on for himself.

“Ah,” he said when he realized what the doctor had done. “Clever, aren’t you.”

The doctor smiled, obviously rather pleased.

“I take your point.” Rummond said. “What of the boy’s mother?”

“She has seven other children, four still at home. Nothing will replace the child she lost, but she consoles herself by helping men who survived things such as her son didn’t.” Dr. Hopper gave the Captain an evaluating look. “She donated her son’s correspondence and records, and she volunteers on a shell-shock ward in a hospital near her.”

Rummond hummed, setting the paper aside.

“How have you fared since I saw you last?” Dr. Hopper asked, sitting back in his desk chair with his hands laced together over his midsection.

“All right,” his patient replied. “Truly, I’ve been all right. I’ve been sleeping fine, having a minimum of nightmares. Gained six pounds and haven’t missed a meal in the last month alone.”

“That sounds like a good month.”

“Best one in quite a while now.”

“How are your hallucinations doing?”

“Well, I’ve not asked how they’re enjoying themselves lately.”

Dr. Hopper snorted softly in amusement at the Captain’s tart reply. “I was asking after _you_ in regards to their frequency, not their particular wellbeing.”

Rummond gave the doctor a grin before thinking back on the last time he’d had any of that sort of interruption. “Haven’t had one in… weeks? More than a month, I know.”

“Good, good,” Dr. Hopper said. “I’ve remarked upon it before, but I think it bears repeating with the lack of them - they may never disappear completely. The hallucinations and downswings, the bouts of melancholy to some degree. How do you feel about that?”

“I don’t know that it matters how I feel about it,” Rummond dismissed.

The doctor shook his head. “I believe it very much matters, Captain.”

Rummond sighed, considering the question. “Not thrilled. But I knew there was no going back to the way everything was before.”

“Before what?” Dr. Hopper nudged him continue the line of thought.

“Before I was injured.”

The doctor nodded approvingly. “Is there more?”

“I can bear it,” Rummond said. “I can bear the occasional hallucination and downswing. I’ve gotten better at handling them. I feel I’ve gotten better with treatment…”

“You say that as though there’s some question about it,” Dr. Hopper observed when the Captain didn’t go on.

Rummond hesitated for a few moments more over the question he wanted to ask. “Do _you_ think I’ve gotten better? Overall? Honestly?”

“I do,” the doctor assured him. “I have no doubt that you have. You’ve healed a great deal in your time here, and the severity of your symptoms has improved considerably.

“The things you’ve taught me, that Belle’s taught me. They help,” he said. “They help me keep my footing.”

“I’m glad to hear that what you’ve learned has helped. There is something I’d like you to understand, though.” Dr. Hopper sat forward so that he could rest his arms on the desk. _“You’ve_ done the work. The tools you’ve been provided with and the help you’ve been given over the course of your time here - those things are in service of your work in mending yourself. I understand the sentiment that might lead you to, but don’t give that credit to anyone else. You were the instrumental part of every improvement you have made.”

Rummond looked out the window to his left, thinking. The grass on the hospital lawn had come back. The tree outside the window was covered with leaf buds that were beginning to burst open with green. He considered the doctor’s assertion regarding help versus credit, feeling pulled two ways about it.

“A little while back, we discussed your plans for the future,” Dr. Hopper began. “You told me a bit about preparations you intended to make, plans you were thinking about. Have you thought more about them? Or put any of those plans into action?”

With a nod, his patient looked back to him. “I’ve gotten some headway on it.”

“Would you tell me more about what you’ve done?”

“I’ve somewhere to live,” Rummond said, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “The, ah- the house I lived in before, I’m renting it out. The flat I was in just before the hospital has been let go. A friend has found a fine little flat, nice and spacious, for Neal and I to move into. So we’ve a place when I leave the hospital. Our belongings have been packed up and they’re waiting there. I want a house for us. Eventually. On the sooner side of eventually. But I don’t want to do that sight unseen, so the flat it is, for now.”

“I remember you talking about the house you hoped to find. What about the watch repair shop you were considering?” the doctor asked.

“Aye, I’m going to do it. Next order of business, after we get a house in line. I’m looking forward to it - the shop. The house, as well.” Rummond’s smile brightened as he thought of the three of them sorting out home and life in general. The day-to-day of it sounded like heaven. “All of it.”

Dr. Hopper nodded, and Rummond realized he hadn’t fiddled with a pen or papers over the course of the session. “And your son? How is he?”

“Fine as frog hair,” Rummond said with a grin. “Doing well in school, thrilled with the idea of a family. Less thrilled about our talk of living arrangements.”

“Oh?” The doctor raised his brows a bit, gently encouraging for more.

“I feel as if he doesn’t quite grasp what we mean when we talk about the living arrangements, and that daunts him. I’m _reasonably_ certain he’ll feel better about it when he sees everything pulling together piece by piece. Just now it might be a bit broad in scope for him.”

“And by ‘we,’ you mean…?”

Rummond cocked an eyebrow of his own. “You don’t play dumb well.”

Dr. Hopper laughed. “Fair enough. What have you discussed in regards to living arrangements?”

“Tentatively, depending on how he reacts when it comes right down to it, Neal will stay on with Belle for a short time while I finish preparing the new flat for him,” Rummond explained. “Then we’ll stay in the flat while the house is fixed up. After Belle and I are married, we’ll all move into it together. He’s none too fond of the idea of waiting for us all to be in the same place.”

“He’s anxious to have his home and family all together,” Dr. Hopper said, understanding.

“When he has dates to point out on a calendar for those wayposts, do you think it might make him feel surer about it all?” Rummond asked.

“I think it might, yes,” the doctor agreed. “Perhaps I can help with that. What do you think of moving into that new flat next week?”

Captain Gold was prepared better than many of his patients upon release. He had everything in place, he’d been doing well for a significant amount of time. There was no reason to keep him in the hospital longer.

“Next week? Do you mean?” Rummond gaped.

“I mean I’m going to have Dr. Whale schedule you for release on Monday morning,” Dr. Hopper told him.

He very nearly swallowed his tongue. _“Monday?”_

“You aren’t just doing well. You’re doing wonderfully, Captain. You’re as healthy as can be expected, you have solid plans underway. I’m proud of the progress you’ve made, every step of it. And I believe you’re more than ready to leave this hospital.”

“Monday? As in-” Rummond pointed toward the door, his hand moving in a quick arc.

“As in Saturday, Sunday, _Monday,”_ Dr. Hopper confirmed with a smile. “You’ve all of your arrangements made, do you not? You have a way to get to your flat?”

“Well, aye, but…”

“Is something the matter?”

“No, no,” Rummond said, shaking his head. He’d wanted this so badly, and now that it loomed, it seemed a little frightening. “It’s only that Monday is rather immediate.”

“This isn’t your last appointment,” Dr. Hopper added after a moment. He watched the expression on Captain Gold’s face go from uncertain to pleased. “I want to see you in my office regularly. Once a week, to begin with. After a while, we’ll move on to once a month. I’m not dropping you from my schedule completely. We’re going to make certain that you _stay_ mending.”

Rummond’s open mouth drew itself into a smile that was at first hesitant. For the most part, trepidation gave way to relief and a careful feeling of enthusiasm. He would be out of hospital on Monday. For the first time in a solid ten months, he would sleep in a bed of his own, eat a meal that he’d made for himself, and neither would be tainted by terror or disgust or shame. On Monday, he would be able to begin getting ready to put his family together, to start a _life_ with his son and Belle, and nothing would stand in his way, not even himself.

He leaned back into the sofa, floored by the fact that he could breathe easily.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

He saw Belle coming off the ward on his way down the corridor. She paused to drop off a few charts on the table near the ward doors, smiling when she looked up and saw him approaching her.

“Monday!” Rummond said, still a bit overwhelmed by the idea. In retrospect, the single word didn’t provide much context for her.

She shook her head in bewilderment. “What’s Monday?”

“Dr. Hopper,” he attempted to clarify. “He’s having me released.”

“As in this upcoming Monday?” Belle smiled, excitement for his news growing as the meaning dawned on her. “You get to go home?”

He nodded quickly. “As in two days and some change.” 

She ran the half dozen steps still between them and threw her arms around his neck, going up onto her toes to kiss him. One of his arms wrapped around her and held her tightly to him. Belle grabbed hold of his lapels to bring him down to her when the arches of her feet began to hurt from stretching up, unwilling to break their kiss just yet. She was happy for him as well for Neal and for herself, and she kissed him hungrily in an effort to show him just _how_ happy.

Rummond clung to her, leaning down to follow her kiss, giddy with the way she held onto him in return. She was all warmth and anticipation and ardor. ‘You get to go home,’ she’d said, but regardless of leaving the hospital to install himself in a flat or finding a house for them, he already had home. Right here.

His forehead leaned against hers when they finally parted, both of them breathless and smiling. Her hands still holding onto the front of his robe, she stepped backward, steering them toward her office.

“Where are we going?” he asked, his head a bit cottony inside and spun with her kiss. 

“Heading for a bit of privacy,” she told him with a lovely daring in her face. “Unless you have something you need to do?”

“Mm, no…” He grinned, following easily. “Suppose not. Not for a couple of days.”


	142. A Good Day for Ducks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompts - _Anonymous said: Mummy anon here. When Belle is aware of what Neal has been calling her she doesn't know how to broach the subject with Rummond because their situation is so unusual, not to mention what her father would think about it._
> 
>  _Anonymous said: Use anything. Bullets prompt: Belle, while talking to Rum finds out more about Neal's infancy. Cute stories follow. But the mood turns sad as Rum reveals that Milah only fed Neal from her breast once, but not because he couldn't latch. She deemed it disgusting and damaging to her figure. Belle's heart breaks for Neal. She offers her thoughts on what she would do if she were to ever give birth to a child herself. Rum gets goo-goo-eyed again and entertains thoughts and fantasies of the future._ ]

The world felt as though it teetered on a knife edge. It was something akin to the way she felt when she started nurse’s training, or what had gone through her when she plucked up the courage to kiss Rummond for the first time. Excitement and expectancy and the future coming to bear in terrifically important ways. There were only hours ahead of them before it toppled headlong back into living.

She knew how the hospital had an element about it of feeling in limbo. When a patient came through the doors, time had a habit of suspending. Family and friends who visited helped, but the men whose days passed with little to mark them tended to lose track. The ward felt like a separate world to _her_ sometimes; she could only imagine how cut off her patients felt. She had never before, however, had so much invested in how a patient thrived and reacclimated after they left the hospital.

The shock of the news had worn off, and Rummond seemed to be looking very forward to being released the next morning. He’d called on Friday afternoon and hired a car to take him to the new flat and on any errands that needed immediate seeing-to. He was more prepared than many of the men she’d watched walk out.

Belle had the idea to do something nice on his last visitor’s day. The weather was fair enough for it. Spring had set in reasonably well, and she decided to take advantage of that with a proper picnic.

“Outdoors?” Rummond asked, as though the thought of it were revolutionary.

“I know we’ve been having picnic lunches right on your bed, but outdoors _is_ where they usually take place,” she teased. “There’s an ideal spot for it on the back lawn.”

“Trees and grass, I expect?” He reached over, giving her sleeve a tug. 

Belle swatted playfully at him. “Oh, likely. Perhaps a flower bud or two, as well.”

“And bugs!” Neal chirped. He was already picking up his crayons and folding the cover back over his drawing pad. “I’m ready.”

“Aren’t you always ready?” Rummond asked, exchanging an impish, wrinkle-nosed look with his son, who gave it right back. He grabbed the boy, lifting him so that he could swing him across and off the side of the bed.

Neal’s shoes thumped on the tile as his Papa set him down. “Always ready,” he agreed.

“Why don’t you ask Nurse Lucas to show you where the linen cupboard is?” Belle suggested. “Fetch a blanket for us to sit on while your Papa and I get sorted out here?”

“I can get a blanket.” He gave the ward a quick look to locate Nurse Lucas before taking off in her direction.

Belle pulled her sat-upon foot from beneath her and slipped down from the bed, taking the basket from Rummond’s footlocker. He folded his covers back and took his cane. When she turned back to him, he was offering his arm. 

“Where is this ideal spot, now?” he asked, snugging her hand against his side when she curled it at the bend of his elbow.

“The outside door a bit down from Dr. Hopper’s office - you take it and turn right,” she directed as they left the ward. “There’s a pretty place there with no windows overlooking.”

Rummond nodded, walking slowly with her down the corridor. It wasn’t as if there would be anything risqué going on, Neal chaperoning as he was, but the idea of being observed was still an unpalatable one.

“I’ve taken tomorrow off entirely,” Belle told him while they were still alone. “So I can go along with you. If you’d like.”

He smiled over at her. “I would. Of course I would.” 

“Good. I’ve been looking forward to it.” Her hand tightened around his arm. “You still want to wait until Neal gets out of school to tell him?”

“Aye, I want to surprise him. I want to see his face when I meet him out front.” Rummond’s smile broadened at the thought.

She bumped her shoulder gently into him. “He’ll be over the moon.”

Neal came running up the corridor toward them, one of the gray hospital blankets hugged to his chest. “Nurse Lucas helped me get one down.”

“Good job!” Belle praised, resting a hand on top of his head for a second before he turned to walk with them. “Now we’ve something to sit on.”

She guided them through to the other side of the hospital and down to the door, waving them out ahead of her. They selected a spot out from under the trees, to make the most of the sun as it shone occasionally through the weave and weft of early spring clouds. Neal helped her to spread the blanket out. She sat, placing the picnic basket next to her so that she could hand out their lunch, and Neal waited until his father dropped his cane to the blanket and carefully sat before plopping down between Rummond and the basket.

“I want to help,” he said, reaching over to open the lid.

“All right, be careful with the glasses,” Belle told him as he took one out. She gave him one of the small bread plates that she brought along when they had sandwiches, gesturing for him to hand it across to his father before she gave him one of his own. 

Neal helped her to serve the chicken salad and walnut sandwiches she’d brought and the currant cream scones Mrs. Potts had baked early for her to take along. She poured from the flask of Mrs. Potts’ pink lemonade, as it was full and she didn’t want all three of them to end up sticky with sugar if it spilled. The lemonade was still cool enough from the icebox that condensation formed on the outside of their glasses. She kept back the tin of cherry preserve thimble cookies until they’d finished.

“One more?” Neal asked sweetly after he’d eaten the rest he had been given.

Belle grinned, holding a cookie over his open hand. “Only one more?”

He looked between the thimble cookie and her smile. “Two?”

She dropped it into his palm, then gave him a second one. “Two. Ask your Papa if he wants another.”

“Papa, do you want some more?” Neal passed the message along, holding one of his pair of cookies to his lips as he spoke and only taking a bite after getting the question out.

“I wouldn’t mind another one or two,” Rummond said, giving Belle an amused look.

She passed two more along to him via his son. Neal’s cookies disappeared rather quickly, and he found occupation in a lady bug discovered on the blanket near his knee. He pursued as it crawled away, following it off the blanket’s edge and into the grass. When he lost it, he began investigating nearer the young poplar trees a bit away from them.

“Neal’s class made cards for their mothers last Friday,” Belle said, taking the chance to tell Rummond. “He made one for me.”

Rummond looked up, needing a moment to swallow a mouthful of cookie. “Did he?” he asked with a smile, glancing over at Neal and back to her.

“He’d written ‘Happy Mother’s Day’ on it and all. It was very sweet.”

“And you- you didn’t mind?”

She fiddled with the flask’s metal lid, looking at how her reflection stretched oddly in the side of it. “I didn’t mind at all. I liked it. It made me feel as if…”

He reached to push the basket out of the way so that he could scoot over next to her. “As if what, love?”

“It made me happy.” She smiled, dropping the lid into the basket to take the distraction away from herself. She looked to Rummond, meeting his eyes. “He called me ‘mama.’ Earlier this week.”

Rummond’s mouth fell open a little. The expression on his face was so much like the one Neal had given her when he said it that she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t burst into nervous laughter.

“Oh?” he finally managed. “How did- ah. What happened?”

“It was by accident. He was sleepy, and it seemed to slip out. I believe it shocked us both,” she explained, her smile turning sheepish.

“Did you talk with him about it?” Rummond asked. He felt more than a bit lost. The thought of his son finding _something_ to call Belle aside from her given name had occurred to him, but this had snuck up on him.

“I did. He got upset with the surprise of it, and I told him there was nothing wrong. He said that he wanted me to ‘be mama,’ and I told him that we should talk to you about that.” Belle looked cautiously up at him.

Rummond’s hand drifted to a curl in Belle’s apron hem, where it lay near his knee. “Did it upset _you?”_ he asked, drawing the crisp material between his fingertips.

“No. It… I didn’t mind it,” she admitted. “I’m not complaining, not at all. I only thought it was something that you should know happened,” Belle said, and when she looked up at him again with a smile, she found him smiling back at her. 

“If you want him to call you something like that, he can.” He said it slowly, watching her face. “If you don’t, I’ll explain to him that-”

“I want him to,” she told Rummond quickly, before he could finish his sentence. She caught a change in his expression - something softened around his eyes. “Perhaps we should wait until everything is official?”

He nodded. “A good idea,” he said, leaving where his fingers fretted with her hem to reach a little farther and take her hand. “That’ll be soon enough, I expect?”

Neal ran over, dropping to his knees with his hands cupped together. “Look!”

“What have you found?” Belle asked. She looked to Neal, squeezing Rummond’s hand. 

Neal held his hands closer to her face, opening them just enough for her to see inside.

“Oh!” she gasped as she saw movement, unable to focus on it. She wrapped a hand around his arm, pulling it back enough that she could see properly. He had somehow managed to catch himself a small dragonfly. Its green body and wings shimmered in the sunlight, and it fluttered madly.

“How pretty,” she told him, holding his hands a more comfortable distance from her face.

He sat down next to Belle, leaning against her. “Can I take it home?” he asked.

“I don’t think we’ve anything to transport it in.”

“I could put it in my pocket!”

“Pockets are all right for lizards, but flying things are too delicate,” she said. “Darling, I’m afraid a little thing like that will end up squashed before you get home. Besides, its home is here somewhere, isn’t it?”

Neal looked thoughtful for a moment. “Oh. Its mama and papa are here somewhere, right? Like the lizard family in your garden?”

“That’s right.” Belle petted his hair, looking down at him as he leaned his head back. 

“It should stay here, then,” he agreed. He hopped to his feet and went to return the dragonfly to where he’d found it. 

She watched him reach up to open his hands near a carefully chosen tree branch. “What was he like as a baby?”

“Oh, he was beautiful. He entered the world with a head full of that hair. He was the tiniest thing, and he’d such a sweet temper. Hardly fussed, unless he was ill. I could calm him as soon as I had him in my arms.” Rummond smiled at the memory, but it led to others. “Milah resented that a bit. She couldn’t soothe him, but she…”

Belle lay a hand on his knee to draw his attention back. “I didn’t mean to bring up anything unpleasant.”

“It isn’t you,” he assured her. A crease flickered between his brows. “Suppose I’m realizing her parenting wasn’t as rosy as I thought, even before.”

Belle scraped her lower lip between her teeth, but she found herself asking anyway, “How?”

“I’m not sure I feel right saying.” A grimace passed over his features. “I’d never say so to Neal. Sometimes it felt as though she didn’t quite like him from the beginning.”

Belle spoke low, to keep her words from Neal’s ears. “How could she not like him? That’s her child.”

“I’ve laid awake wondering that.”

“What makes you think so, though?”

He frowned, taking Belle’s hand again. “She wouldn’t nurse him. She tried the once and never again.”

“Did he not latch properly?” Belle asked. She laced her fingers between his, holding on. She’d heard of mothers having trouble that way. Sometimes there were problems, sometimes it simply didn’t happen. “Sometimes-”

“He did. He latched fine. She didn’t take to it.”

“How do you mean?”

“He nursed for a few minutes, and she decided that it was ‘vile.’ Declared she wouldn’t do it again. She told me to find another way to feed him.” Rummond sighed, the pad of his thumb stroking absently against the soft web between Belle’s thumb and forefinger. “I called ’round to the doctor and he suggested giving Neal goat’s milk. I got feeder bottles from the chemist, and that’s what we did. He grew fine on it, but-” He shook his head. “I didn’t ask questions of her. It wasn’t something she wanted to talk about at all, and I wouldn’t push. She remarked once while she was dressing, something about a friend of hers being right, and being glad she hadn’t ruined her figure by playing cow to a calf.”

He remembered Milah holding Neal out to him after her only attempt. _Here, take it off me. I won’t have a clinging child._

Neal had been so wee, such a delicate little creature. The way his son had looked at him was nigh miraculous. He couldn’t imagine not wanting to hold onto that baby as long as he was able.

Belle looked to Neal. He had his hands wrapped around a branch, pulling himself up to look along the top of it. When she turned back to Rummond, a sad expression had settled into his face again.

“Rum?” she said. “All right?”

“Hm?” He looked up at her, and it was as though he’d been somewhere else for a moment. “I’m all right. I only-” He glanced to his son, who dropped from the branch to crouch down in the grass beneath it, inspecting something closely. “For a very long time, I’ve labored under the belief that I made Milah treat Neal as she did. That it was me, the things I did during the war, the way I was after it, that made her turn him away.”

Rummond began to get that faraway look about him again. Belle reached over with her free hand, giving his knee a brisk rub to return him to her. 

“It wasn’t,” he said, squinting a bit. “It wasn’t that. She _never had_ a connection to him. How did I not say something to her about it?”

“You wanted to see your family as a happy one. There’s nothing wrong with that. And you couldn’t have changed her,” Belle said.

“She was kind enough to him when I was there, but it was always something beneath it. I can’t remember ever seeing him seek her out for a touch or attention. He knew.” The thought that she hadn’t wanted Neal both made him nauseous and his heart hurt. Worse - it seemed Neal had on some level been aware of that. “If she’d said she wanted none, I wouldn’t have pushed her. I- I love my boy. More than life itself,” he said quickly, so that Belle couldn’t misunderstand him. “But I’d never have pushed her.”

“Sweetheart… I know,” Belle whispered, aware of Rummond watching her. “I can’t imagine not loving my children, Neal included, with every fiber of my being. I would worry more that I’d never want to let go.”

He focused more sharply on her, and she could see hope ekeing into his features. “I would never push you, Belle. If you don’t want-”

“I want,” she said before he could get the sentiment out. “I absolutely want.”

“I found another one!” Neal called, trotting over again. He sat down sideways in Belle’s lap, showing her the lady bug crawling along the back of his hand. “It’s not the same one I saw on the blanket. Maybe it’s that one’s sister.”

“Maybe,” Belle said, wrapping her arm around Neal.

Rummond watched the two of them, feeling a bit of an epiphany. He’d never seen the boy look at Milah with that sort of open affection. Belle loved him with a ferocity to it that he’d never imagined she might.

“I love you,” he said when Belle glanced his way.

Neal beamed at his Papa, then tilted his head back to look up at Belle.

“I love you, too,” she replied, her smile just as bright.

“What were you talking about?” Neal asked as he leaned to let the lady bug go on the blanket.

“You. When you were a wee bairn,” Rummond told him. “Only big enough to wrap in a handkerchief.”

Neal shook his head. “I wasn’t that little!”

“You were, once. Why, I could have fit you in my waistcoat pocket, if I’d had a mind to.”

“Nuh-uh!” Neal laughed.

Rummond leaned in a bit toward them. “Guess what Belle’s told me.”

“I don’t know,” Neal said after scrunching his face up in thought for a moment. “What?”

“Belle told me that you made her something for Mother’s Day.”

Neal’s eyebrows rose. “Oh.”

“She told me that she liked the card you made for her. I’m glad you made her one.” Rummond bumped his son’s knee with his free hand, getting a smile in return. “Then she told me about you calling her ‘mama.’”

The little boy’s smile faltered. He looked back and forth between them. 

“It’s all right. I’m not angry. You’ve done nothing wrong. We’ve talked, and we’d both be happy if you would call her ‘mama,’” Rummond reassured him. _“But…_ would it be all right with you to wait until after the wedding to call her that all the time?”

Neal nodded. He watched the lady bug crawl off the edge of the blanket and disappear. “Would Mum be angry about me calling Belle my Mama?”

“It doesn’t matter what your Mum would think. This isn’t her family,” Rummond told his son in no uncertain terms. “This is _our_ family, duckling. You, Belle, and me. We’re the only ones who get to have any opinion on it. Right?”

Neal sighed, his smile returning. His feet wiggled, and he looked up. “I feel rain!”

Sure enough, just as he said it, Belle felt a raindrop on her cheek. Then it began to drizzle. “Here, help me pack up,” she said, and he moved from her lap to pick up their plates.

Before they could get everything put away, the rain grew heavier. The speckles of water on her dress turned into blotches, and a roll of thunder rumbled overhead. She clapped the lid onto the tin of cookies before they could turn soggy.

“Neal, hurry on in, we’ll be right there,” Rummond told him.

Neal ran to the door and swung it open, hopping through. He didn’t have long to wait. Belle grabbed the basket and his Papa gathered the blanket in a big wad, and they were indoors before it turned into an absolute cloudburst.

There was another roll of thunder and suddenly they could hear the rain pounding down onto the hospital. Rummond let the blanket fall open so that he could shake the rain from it. “Well, it’s a good day for ducks.”

“We’re ducks!” Neal said, smiling up at his Papa. “I’m duckling, that makes you ducks. It’s a good day for us!”

“Sound reasoning.” Belle grinned over at Rummond. “And I’d say it’s been a very good day.”


	143. No Net Ensnares Me

Rummond had his kitbag packed, for the most part, by the time Belle arrived. Reyes was a sound sleeper, and Hargreaves was no longer there to be annoyed by the lantern he’d borrowed off Nurse Lagorio to get started. He had made headway on emptying his footlocker before time rolled around for the ward lights to come on.

He heard the door and turned to find Belle standing there looking like a proper lady off a fashion plate. She’d dressed for a day out, and the thought of that made him happy. She wanted to be seen with him.

Belle was perhaps the most beautiful he’d ever seen her. She’d pinned and tucked her hair to imitate a soft bob; the broad fingerwaves at the sides and the anchored curls around her nape gave her face a flattering frame. Her skirt was long and swingy near the hem, just touching the tops of her shoes. The fabric _almost_ verged on violet, and he wondered what manner of argument she would have if he called it blue. She wore a loosely-tucked blouse of white lace, with fitted sleeves and a sailor collar that fluttered at the back when she moved. She was the physical embodiment of a breath of fresh air and his heart beat easier simply looking at her.

Down by her side, she held a wide straw hat dyed to match her skirts. A cluster of ribbon flowers were anchored to a lighter blue ribbon band encircling it. Belle dropped it on his bunk when she walked up next to him, and he felt the warmth of her hand low on his back.

“Good morning,” she said, smiling as she leaned up and tilted her head back a bit in request of a kiss.

Rummond obliged without hesitation, the familiarity of her warming him through. “Good morning.”

“Ready to go?” 

“Ready as can be, just now. I’m waiting to be allowed my own clothes again.”

She watched as he placed a good many loose things from his bedside table drawer into the tin box of watch parts for safekeeping. “Can I help with anything?” she asked as he fit the lid on.

“I believe I’m near finished,” he said with a shake of his head. “I’ll toss my robe and slippers in the top when I’m dressed.”

Belle laughed almost silently. Rarely did he ‘toss’ anything anywhere. “What time is the car set to arrive?” 

He took the book that Lieutenant Hargreaves had lent him and slid it down into the side of his kitbag. “Fairly soon. I told the service half past six, figuring for Humbert coming on shift and sorting my things out of storage.”

“Graham should be in.” She handed him his wallet from the bed. “Do you want to see?”

Rummond double checked that the creased little photograph of Neal was in its spot in his wallet before tucking it away in his robe pocket. He looked around. “The footlocker’s empty, isn’t it?”

She stepped over, peering inside. “Right down to the bottom,” she confirmed, closing the lid.

He looked into the drawer once more, then made certain that the shelf underneath was empty. Going down onto his good knee, he checked beneath the bunk. “That’s near everything, then,” he said and helped himself back up with a hand on the table.

“Near?”

“One last thing here.” Rummond moved his kitbag from the bed and turned the topmost blanket down, revealing the patchwork design of the quilt she’d made for him.

Belle smiled. She moved her hat to the closed footlocker and pulled the hospital blanket from the bed, folding it and leaving it there, as well. Going ’round to the the other side, she helped him untuck his quilt from the bottom of the mattress, and together they folded it down to a manageable size. Before he could take it, himself, she leaned and lifted it into her own arms.

“Let me get that,” he protested.

“You can’t carry all of it at once,” she said, nodding to his bag and the heavy sheaf of string-bound papers on top of his table, which she knew to be months’ worth of Neal’s drawings.

He gave a grumbling hum, but he gave in, as well. “Ready,” he said, hefting his kitbag strap onto his shoulder. It was noticeably heavier than when he’d arrived. He had acquired a surprising amount of this-and-that since admitting himself. He moved Neal’s drawings to the same hand so that he could take up his cane. “All right, let’s go and find Humbert.”

Belle took her hat as she passed the footlocker and went back around, happy when he waited for her. His full hands meant that she couldn’t take his arm, but she could walk next to him on the way out.

Strand lifted a hand in farewell from across the aisle, and Rummond waved just a tad awkwardly with the papers. As he passed Reyes’ bunk, the boy gestured him over. 

“C- Captain,” Reyes said, extending a hand. “I’m glad to have met you, even if it had to b- be here.”

Rummond leaned his cane against the table to shake Reyes’ hand. “Same, you know. It’s been a privilege to know you. And I’ll be by again. It’s not as if I could stay away,” he said, glancing to Belle and giving the boy a smile.

He patted Reyes’ shoulder before taking his cane again and making his way off the ward with Belle. They neared the end of the east corridor, and she took a quick couple of steps ahead, opening an examination room door.

“Here, we’ll just take the usual room,” she said, stepping inside after ushering him in ahead of her. She left her hat on the counter but held onto his quilt. “I’ll fetch Graham and have him bring the box with your effects. You put your bag down. I won’t be long.”

The room was the same that Humbert had brought him to when he entered the hospital. The chair, the metal table, the privacy screen - all were still there. Belle had left the door open, and he found himself glad of it. It kept the room from feeling quite so isolating. He set his kitbag on the chair and Neal’s drawings on the counter just behind it, settling in to wait.

Belle returned after only a few minutes, and Humbert followed just behind her with the box that contained the clothing Rummond had arrived in. He brought them out, everything nicely folded and in the same condition they’d been when they were packed away.

“Here we go, Captain,” Humbert said, setting the small stack of clothing on the counter. “You’ll let me know if there’s anything not as it should be?”

With a nod, Rummond took his things and stepped over behind the screen. He separated the articles on the table, laying them out in order.

“Leave your gown and I’ll take it later,” Humbert called to him.

He shed his robe and folded it over the top of the screen, and the hospital gown followed.

Belle stood next to the closed door, hugging Rummond’s quilt to her while he dressed. She felt butterflies in the region of her lower ribcage. They were good ones, though, fluttering with anticipation of her day.

Graham leaned back against the counter after checking off the short inventory list from the effects box, crossing his arms over his middle. “You look as if you’ve a full day planned,” he said, nodding to her dress.

She smiled, twisting happily back and forth. “I’m accompanying Rum today. Errands, back-and-forths, and such.”

“‘And such.’ Mhmm,” Graham hummed suggestively.

Belle clucked her tongue. “Don’t ‘mhmm’ me. There is nothing ‘mhmm’ about moving errands.”

He didn’t attempt to hide his smirk. “Hmm.”

Rummond’s voice came from the other side of the screen. “I’m still back here.”

“Do you want us to shush?” she asked.

“I’d rather you be chattering than standing there silent whilst I’m trying to do up my trousers. Insinuations notwithstanding,” he said, and he heard Belle snicker.

Rummond buttoned his shirt easily, appreciating the fact that his hands no longer shook. He tucked it into his trousers and finished fastening them, drew his braces up into place, then saw to his tie and waistcoat. Picking up his flight jacket, he held it in his hands for a moment before turning it and swinging it around to slip it on. The weight of it was familiar and comforting, and he immediately felt the measure of safety that it had always lent. His clothes didn’t wear quite the same as they did when he entered the hospital. They’d hung on him then. They still mightn’t be as closely fitted as they should, but he filled them out decently enough.

He took his wallet from his robe and replaced it in the inner pocket of his jacket, where it belonged. Picking up his shoes along with his robe and slippers when he left from behind the screen, he left his old cigarette case on the table there. It was still a mild temptation, the thought of lighting up and taking a pull. He could almost feel the warm smoke in his lungs. Remembering what they did to his nerves was enough to keep him sworn off, though. It was worth never smoking again to eliminate that risk.

Rummond came out in his sock feet, and Belle smiled to herself. She reached for his bag on the chair, but Graham got there first, moving it so that Rummond could sit down to put on his shoes. She placed his quilt on the counter and stood in front of him.

 _“My,”_ she said softly, reaching out to run her hand along the back of his neck. “Don’t you look handsome.”

He got one foot in its proper shoe and gave her a lopsided smile. “I’m the same as I looked when I arrived.”

“I didn’t actually get to see you when you first arrived, if you’ll recall.” Belle fussed with his shirt collar, her fingers stroking along the shearling of his jacket. “And you do not look the same. You’re stouter. Healthier. You look as if you’ll survive a journey back down the front steps now.” He put on his other shoe and stood, and she laid her hands flat on his chest. “How do you feel?”

His smile broadened a bit. “Like walking out of here.”

“I believe we can do that,” she said, smiling back up at him.

“I need to pay Dr. Hopper a visit first. Only a quick stop by.”

“He’ll be in his office now,” Graham offered as he stepped over to pull the hospital gown off the screen. “And free for another half hour or so.”

Rummond wrapped his slippers inside his robe and tucked them into his kitbag. He turned to Humbert, offering his hand. “Thank you,” he said when the boy took it. “For, ah… everything.”

Humbert smiled and shrugged. “No thanks necessary, Captain Gold. It’s been an honor to know you.”

Knowing the sentiments that the world at large held toward him - toward people _like_ him - it felt very strange to receive such a remark. He supposed it always would. 

He gave Humbert’s hand a firm shake and took his cane once more, opening the door for Belle to step into the corridor ahead of him. They made their way down to Dr. Hopper’s office, and he set his bag on the bench outside of it to take the rolled tool case out before knocking.

“Captain,” the doctor greeted, opening the door wide. “I didn’t expect to see you this morning.”

“I forgot to bring this by.” Rummond held the case of tools out to him.

Dr. Hopper gave them a curious look. “Keep them,” he said. 

Rummond looked to the tools, then back up to the doctor. “You’re certain?” he asked. “It’s such a nice set.”

“Please. They should be owned by someone who will use them and care for them,” Dr. Hopper urged. “I’m no watchmaker, and they would only sit idle on a shelf.”

“They’ll be cared for and appreciated. I’ve none of my own.”

“You do now. I’ll see you next Monday?”

“Nine sharp,” Rummond agreed, extending his hand. The doctor readily shook it. “Thank you.”

Dr. Hopper smiled warmly, reaching up to push his eyeglasses higher. “You are more than welcome, Captain.”

Rummond took up his kitbag again. “The car should be here,” he said with a glance at her watch.

 _“I’ve_ been ready all morning,” Belle teased him as they headed back toward the foyer. “It’s you I’ve been waiting on to get dressed and make rounds.”

“Well, my stars, I only wanted to look nice for you,” he ribbed in return. “Thought you might want to show me off a tad.”

“You think you’re teasing, but I’ve been positively aching to show you off in public for months.” She leaned next to him when he stopped at the front desk to sign his release papers, putting her hat back on while they’d stopped. “Why do you think I offered to run errands with you today?”

He looked over at her with raised brows and a bashful smile in the corner of his mouth.

Mal chuckled, taking the papers and slapping his file closed on them. “Go on, out with both of you before I’m forced to call the police on you for indecency.”

Belle gave the desk nurse a pleased grin, then showed the same to Rummond. She lifted her hand to curl it lightly around Rummond’s upper arm, careful not to throw his balance off with his bag.

A sleek black motor car was waiting for them just at the bottom of the front steps. Its driver hopped quickly out and ran around to open the door. The young man offered to take Rummond’s kitbag and put it in the boot; he relinquished it with hardly a hesitation.

The drive was a short one - less than ten minutes from the hospital. Belle had imagined that his flat would be in the vicinity. She was relieved to be correct. They parked in front of a nice block of flats and the driver came back around to let them out. Rummond had the door half open by the time the driver took it.

“I’ll be needing my kitbag back,” Rummond said as he turned to give Belle a hand out. The driver fetched it, and he lifted it onto his shoulder and back again.

Rummond’s flat was to the right side of the ground floor, with only a turn and a short corridor between the entrance and his front door. Belle was glad of the brevity of the walk, thinking of Rummond’s leg. 

A small, drawstring bag with a note pinned to it hung on the door handle. Apparently the landlady was out for the day. She’d left the key for him.

“Nice that no one thought to rob the place,” he said, tipping the key out into his palm. He let them in, leaving his bag just inside the front door.

“Not too many robberies in the area, luckily,” Belle said from behind him.

He placed Neal’s drawings on the coffee table when he stopped to look around the room they’d walked into. “What would you call this?”

“Sitting room,” she said, stepping past him to lay his quilt over the back of the sofa. “Receiving room, perhaps, since you walk right in.”

Rummond went across to the writing desk on the far wall. There was a floor lamp on one side of it and a narrow, empty bookcase on the other. “It’s nice, whatever it’s called.”

“Yes, it is.” Belle smiled over at him. She was proud of the flat _for_ him. He hadn’t had such a nice place in far too long.

She went to have a look out the bay window that was situated at the right end of the room. It was covered with a set of lace curtains, and while the view of the street wasn’t spectacular, it let in plenty of light. There was a ledge wide enough to sit comfortably on. The entire flat had been aired and cleaned, and she was certain that Rummond had Dove to thank. More than that, with a cursory look around, she discovered that the small kitchen was full to the gills and the washroom had been supplied with necessities. They wouldn’t have to do all the shopping she’d thought they might.

She went past the kitchen and down a short hallway to find the bedrooms. The one on the end had been prepared, but the slightly smaller one just up from it was empty, holding only boxes. They were Neal’s little belongings from the house that Lieutenant Hargreaves’ family now rented, she realized.

“I asked Dove to have the landlady move the bedroom set into storage,” Rummond said as he looked in over her shoulder. “I want Neal to have things that feel like his own.”

She turned, looking up at him. “That’s very thoughtful,” she said, putting a hand on the crown of her hat so that it wouldn’t shift when she rose up to kiss him.

“I thought it would make moving from here to the house a bit easier, having everything in his room familiar.”

“He’ll like that, having belongings of his own to take.”

Rummond took her hand, lifting it to his lips to press a kiss to her fingers. “We should go on and make arrangements for things, shouldn’t we? Shouldn’t I?” he clarified. “Living things?”

“We should,” she agreed. “You have the car hired all day?”

“As long as I’ve need of it, they said.”

“Good. We’ll make some proper use of it.”

She noticed Rummond’s fingers fidgeting nervously when they returned to the car. Belle took the hand that was still, the one next to her, and brought it over to rest on her leg. “What’s the matter?”

“What if people recognize me?” Rummond said after a moment. He could only remember the way he’d been denied service in some shops after he came home, being the subject of stares and whispers all over town when he was forced to be around people. “If they recognize me-”

“We’re a bit away from either neighborhood you’ve lived in here,” Belle told him in an attempt at comfort.

He frowned. “Aye, but the shops.”

“Why don’t we use the businesses that Mrs. Potts uses?” she suggested gently. “If there’s anywhere too familiar that you don’t want to visit, we’ll find an alternative.”

That seemed to allay his worries somewhat, and he directed the driver to follow Belle’s directions. Their first stop was to make arrangements for milk delivery. It took only an address, and they were in and out in five minutes, to Rummond’s relief. Next came a laundry service, to ensure that he and Neal stayed in fresh linens, and it took only a bit longer. Belle reminded him to drop by the post office, as his mail would need forwarding to the new address, and he had to stop off at the bank, as well. He needed to put in an appearance, to connect his face with the name on his accounts. 

When he realized that he wouldn’t need to make a visit to a grocer - at least not in the immediate future - he visibly relaxed. He also wondered what it might take to hire someone to do the food shopping for him while he and Neal were still in the flat.

“Where to next?” Belle asked as the driver pulled away from the bank. 

The account manager had treated him kindly, answering his questions and providing the information that he needed. She wasn’t certain how much that had to do with the manager himself and how much with the hawk-like manner in which she watched their interactions, but she was happy with the way Rummond had been treated, nonetheless.

“I need to arrange for Neal’s furniture,” he said thoughtfully. “I’d like to have it delivered as soon as possible.”

“There’s time to have it done today,” Belle told him. “Where would you like to look?”

He was quiet for a moment before he looked to her and admitted, “I don’t know. The wee furniture I had for his nursery, I ordered by post.”

“All right. Well, there’s Harrods,” she said, considering. “It’s rather a behemoth to get through, though, and I think perhaps not today? Let’s see… there’s House of Reeves. That’s where my own bedroom set came from. The one that Neal uses now.”

“That’s a bit of a drive, isn’t it?” Rummond asked.

Belle looked at the watch hanging at the end of her necklace and he smiled. She had worn it every day since he’d given it to her - he could always see the bit of golden chain peeking from between her uniform and the top of her apron - but he was glad she’d found use for it. She wore the little pearl stick pin he’d given her over Christmas, as well.

“If we go ahead, we’d have enough time to drive there and back with a cushion to look around,” she estimated. “Depending on how long we linger, we would have time to rest after we return, as well.”

He thought of Neal’s empty bedroom back in the flat and nodded. “House of Reeves it is, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visual aid: [the layout of Rummond’s new flat](http://68.media.tumblr.com/0964862640a62059d9ad4f94eda039fe/tumblr_ot0rrrRA551sn4l8ho1_1280.png)
> 
> _(I had to divide this chapter in half because some stupid life stuff Happened and ate up part of my writing time, but I underestimated just how dang long it would end up, anyway. The good news is that this means next week’s chapter will have that private time some of you guys asked about. ;) )_


	144. Familiar and New

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts _\- anonymousnerdgirl said: Do you think it would be possible for Belle to fabricate a night shift so she can help Rummond prepare the flat for Neal to join him and so they can celebrate properly?_
> 
> _noora7 said: Are Rum and Belle gonna christen the new flat :)_

Belle pushed off her brown Oxfords with a pair of _thump_ s by the door. She pulled the pin from her hat, setting both on the coffee table, and let the slender strap of her purse slip off her wrist next to it. Two hours into Croydon and two hours back made for a wearying day, particularly when they’d already run a day’s worth of errands the same morning. 

She heard Rummond sit down on the sofa behind her and she dropped herself onto the cushion next to him, just against his side. He crossed his bad leg over the good one, and she turned to drape her legs across his lap. With a tired smile, he rested his hands on her skirts.

The furniture was to be delivered within the week - House of Reeves promised them as much. Rummond had chosen a fine and sturdy set that would last Neal into his older childhood, and Belle was certain that the little boy would be thrilled with every bit of it. The set was reminiscent enough of her own that she wondered whether the same craftsman still sold his furniture to the shop.

Rummond’s fingers edged beneath her hem before running along her shin. His hand curled more firmly over the most generous part of her calf, squeezing there in a way that made her sigh and very nearly melt.

“What time is it?” he asked, and she looked up to find him watching her carefully.

Belle grinned. She’d been hoping that he would attempt to start something since the day he’d caught her standing on the sofa in her office and she’d had to turn him down. She turned the little pendant watch so that she could see its face. “Quarter past two.”

“How much time do we have before we need to leave?” His fingers pressed into the bare back of her knee. 

Oh, she did hope that he was leading where she thought. “Mm… Thirty minutes, thereabout.”

Rummond’s hand ran slowly up the side of her thigh. “And how long might it take to get to the school from here?”

“Not far at all. It’s walking distance.” She considered, having not a little trouble calculating through the haze he caused over her thoughts. “Not even five minutes.”

“Ah,” he said softly.

She went on watching him. Her impatience got the best of her. “Why do you ask?”

“I thought perhaps…” He shrugged a shoulder, and she could see the color creep into his cheeks. He went on haltingly, but she set her mind to hearing him say it. “As we’re alone… we might… spend a bit of time together?”

“We are spending time together,” she said, smiling cheekily at him. 

Rummond caught onto the game then. He leaned toward her, sideways, seeking a kiss. He lingered, holding the kiss as though he drew a sip, quenching thirst from her lips.

She found herself breathless when he pulled away enough to speak, feeling a warmth low in her belly, and oh, yes, _that_ would be how she always ended up the one who suggested they pursue something more intimate.

Belle clung precariously to her ground. “What is it you want, Rum?”

He took a pair of shoring breaths before he managed a quiet, “You.”

She smiled, wrapping her arms around his neck to pull herself closer, kissing him again. “The flat does need a proper christening, even if it _is_ only meant to be temporary.”

Rummond’s hand moved higher, his fingers finding their way beneath the eyelet at the edge of her drawers. “And you’ll help me christen it?”

“Here? Or your bedroom?” she asked, encouraging him to make the decision.

“Bedroom,” he chose after a moment. “Is that all right? Bedroom?”

“It’s your flat,” Belle reminded him with a warm look. “Anywhere you’d like is all right.” 

A smile curled in the corner of his mouth, and the hand not hidden beneath her skirts moving to her back to hold her close. He leaned in to press a kiss to the side of her neck and she tilted her head back, letting a blissful sound escape her.

“Rum, as reluctant as I am to move… I need a few minutes in the washroom,” she told him, moving her legs off his lap. She stole a quick kiss before taking her purse from the table and hurrying to the first door off the sitting room.

Belle set her preparations in place and washed her hands, deciding at the last second to take her drawers off entirely. She carried them with her when she stepped into the hallway, turning to go on down to the end when she found the sitting room empty.

Rummond stood in the middle of the bedroom, appearing more than a little lost in the space. She saw that he’d spread his quilt on the bed, and the plain blanket that had formerly covered it was now neatly discarded, folded over the armchair in the corner. She smiled, proud that he enjoyed her present so.

He hadn’t heard her approach. She stepped into the room and tossed the hank of cream colored silk past him onto the bed, smothering a laugh at the way his head turned to follow them. He looked to her with a surprised smile.

“If we get started on the bed, we’ll never get all put back together in half an hour,” she pointed out as she approached him. She stood near enough to feel his warmth, not quite touching him.

“Where, then?” He cast around, considering surfaces. If there was one thing he had learned when they’d begun to relate in a more physical manner, it was that possibilities were fairly far-reaching.

Belle tucked her hands behind her to slide open enough of the hook-and-eyes holding her skirt closed that she could push it down over her blessedly lighter spring petticoat. “I’ve an idea.”

“Do you?” he asked, watching as she wiggled her skirt down. It occurred to him to offer his hand.

“Mhmm,” she hummed. Taking his hand, she stepped out of the pool of blue-violet fabric at her feet. “You’ll find it fairly familiar, I believe.”

As she bent to pick up her skirt and shake it out, Rummond shrugged out of his jacket so that he could set it aside. He laid it on the bed just next to her skirt so that the leather wouldn’t leave creases in the more delicate material.

Belle took his hand again, and she led him over to the heavy, squat chest-of-drawers next to the bedroom door. Giving the door a push to swing it closed, she turned to rest the heels of her hands on top of the hip height piece of furniture, lifting herself onto it. The chest was just about right - much the same height as the exam table they’d found themselves making use of once.

She reached out, catching her fingers in the front of his waistcoat, and pulled him to her, bringing him close to stand between her legs. Belle left the length of her petticoat for him to sort out. She wanted to feel him pull it up for himself.

“Here,” she said, resting her hand over his on the handle of his cane. “Let’s put this behind me?”

He nodded, allowing her to take it. She slid it onto the back of the chest-of-drawers, where there was more than enough room and it would remain at hand.

Rummond rested his hands at the outsides of her thighs, stroking back and forth toward her hips. The sound she made when he pulled her a bit more toward the edge was something to be basked in. He looked down at her petticoat, moving his hands to begin drawing it up.

“Reminds me of our first time,” she whispered as he gathered the paisley patterned cotton away from her legs and up her thighs.

“Does, doesn’t it.” He smiled, at last working the broad ruffle around the hem as far as her lap. “Though, you’d on more layers then.”

Belle returned his smile, remembering very well. “You had fewer.”

His hands found their way beneath her petticoat, his fingertips skirting along at the border of her stockings where they rolled above her garters. Her own fingers plucked at the firm fit of his waistcoat, curling under the back edge and aching for the warmth of him that was hidden beneath it. There were more important garments to divest him of just at the moment, though.

She brought her hands back around, between them, and rather unceremoniously went at his trouser buttons. A surprised grin spread across on his face in response to her eagerness. She tried to push his trousers down, finding she hadn’t undone quite enough buttons, and had to go back for two more before she could manage it. He took a second to help her, pushing them down along with his underwear. She pulled her petticoat toward her a bit more so that she could get a look at him.

It made a squirm of anticipation run through her, how ready he was. Belle reached out to pull him close again, and she felt the laugh of delight on his lips as she kissed him. She gave his lower lip a purposeful little nip simply so that she could appreciate the soft groan he made in response to her. Sliding a hand down, she ran it past the slim line of his hip to spread it over the soft swell of his backside.

Rummond tilted his head, pleased surprise flashing across his face with her handsy gesture. Her smile turned more than a little brazen. He ran a hand back up her thigh, the backs of his fingers stroking along the crease of her leg as his hand moved to the inside. With gentle fingertips, he touched her. Her hips shifted in response, and he felt need coil hotter in his belly.

He swallowed hard, resting his forehead against hers. “Ready?” he asked to make certain.

“Yes,” she said, giving a squeak as he brought her closer to the edge of the chest-of-drawers again. She felt her ability to string words together fizzling into thin air, and she told him quickly, “Yes, yes, yes, ready.”

His hand rubbed high along the inside of her thigh when he moved it back to bring himself into the right position, and she heard the impatience in her own sound as the head nudged against her entrance. It took every bit of self-restraint that she could muster to not yank him forward. He went about it slowly - and while she realized that it likely wasn’t with such agonizing slowness as it seemed to her, it felt as though he took an eternity to get their bodies pressed solidly together. 

Belle curled her fingers into the armholes of his waistcoat at the front, clinging to him. As much as she’d have preferred time to strip him down to the skin, she did have an appreciation of the handholds and leverage that his waistcoat provided her. He was still for a moment too long, and she gave his upper body a tug against her. She could see such a thin ring of brown at the edge of his irises, and she _knew_ that he was on edge just as she was. He was holding back for her response.

She laughed in her frustration. “Move!” she gasped, tugging at him again.

Rummond grinned, at last pulling his hips back, and the bit of friction that came with the motion was delicious. When he thrust into her again, it was at a more satisfying speed, and it was only her hold on him that kept her from sagging back against the wall with the gratification of it.

“Like that,” she said, more breath than sound. “Please, like that…”

Her encouragements drew a groan from Rummond before he could stop it. She moved an arm to wrap it around the back of his neck, holding tightly to him, and he felt her heels pressing in high on the backs of his thighs. The idea that she might want him anywhere near as much as he wanted her was still positively flooring, and it served to spur him on. 

They found something resembling a rhythm in his thrusts and her tilts to meet him. He was too close, though, and he knew that he wouldn’t last long enough for her to finish, the way they were going. With one hand holding desperately to a fistful of her petticoat near her hip, he moved the other between them again. He was nearly undone with the added sensation of her heat and wetness in his hand.

Rummond found the little bud near the top of her cleft, and he nestled it between his fingers, rubbing gently at either side of it. The result was a lovely one. Belle whimpered, her legs tightening around him. He heard as well as felt her nails scrape the fabric as her fingers curled against the shoulder of his waistcoat.

She cried out, sharply and _far_ more loudly than he’d ever heard her, and he had no hope of holding on longer. He pushed himself fully into her once more, and his own release washed suddenly through him. Rummond ducked his head to smother a broken sound in her shoulder, drowning it in the lace of her blouse.

In the peace that fell over them afterward, he grew aware of the warmth of Belle’s thighs pressed against his hips, and the way she still clung to him, keeping him from moving away from her. He felt the last flutters of her inside, and the breath of her sigh ghosted over the side of his neck.

Belle untangled her arms from him, her hands moving to his shoulders as she leaned away enough to look up at him. “For a hurried encounter, that was _very_ nice.”

“It was,” he said with a smile, brushing the tip of her nose with his. “Wonderful.”

“I suppose we should move.” She wrinkled her nose at the thought.

“We’ll have to eventually,” he agreed.

She patted his shoulders and moved her hands a bit higher, so that she was able to touch his neck above his shirt collar. “I don’t imagine we’ve much time before we need to leave, now.”

“You have the washroom first,” Rummond said, reaching behind her to take his cane before he eased away from the comforting circle of her arms and legs.

Belle’s breath hitched softly as he slipped from her. She missed the night that they were able to spend together over Christmas, however accidental the actual spending of it might have been. He offered his hand again, and she took it to hop down from the chest on slightly shaky legs.

She took her drawers from the bed, grinning back at him and watching rather blatantly as he pulled his trousers up over his bare bottom. After giving her watch a look, she hurried to go and wash up.

Belle had the washroom door open when he made it down the hallway. She stood in front of the mirror over the sink, smoothing her hair and straightening her blouse. He observed as she made certain that she didn’t appear as though she’d been up to anything. She looked _so_ lovely.

“When you’re considering houses,” she said as she stepped out so that he could go in, “perhaps keep a lookout for slightly more spacious washrooms?”

He hadn’t before had a good look at the flat’s washroom, but he understood now why she mentioned it. “At least big enough to stand two abreast at the sink?”

“That would be ideal, yes.” She leaned in to take her purse from the counter, giving him a playful swat on the backside before hurrying away with a laugh that made it down the hallway to him.

Belle returned to the bedroom for her skirt, putting it carefully back on over her head. Her shoes were still in the sitting room, as was her hat, but she could get them on the way out. Rummond came back just as she got her skirt turned and settled into the right place. He stepped behind her, helping with the closure. 

When he’d done, he set his hands at her waist and brought her back to his front. He brushed a kiss over the soft line of her jaw. His nuzzle there made her wish they had hours more time.

She turned, though, reaching to smooth his hair before catching her hands together behind his neck. “Ready to go?”

“The look on Neal’s face is going to be an absolute treasure,” Rummond said, his smile brightening.

She beamed, dropping her hands so that she could take hold of his. “Let’s go and fetch our boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visual aid:  
> [Rummond's flat bedroom](http://68.media.tumblr.com/dbf8abfdc3f438213ea0c4bf1d654230/tumblr_otfk0xQtMs1sn4l8ho1_1280.png)


	145. The Thing With Feathers

He couldn’t sit still in the car. They were a bare five minutes ahead of the school bell, and to the driver’s consternation, Rummond let himself out. Belle joined him with an understanding smile. He stood with his back leaning against the side, twisting his cane between his hands. Each inquiry after the time was met with a patient reply.

At last they heard the bell ring inside. Moments later, waves of children began pouring from the front doors. Rummond pushed away from the car, scanning the growing crowd.

“Rum,” Belle said, laying one hand on his arm and pointing with the other. “There.”

Following her direction, he caught sight of Neal before the boy saw him. Despite the urge to call his son’s name, he waited.

Neal straightened his cap where Morraine had bumped it askew at the end of class. He looked over as she passed him going down the steps, and she gave him a smile and a wave before running to meet her mum outside the school gate. Neal looked for Belle’s papa’s car and Horatio.

Someone bumped into his back before he realized he had stopped walking. Horatio wasn’t there, and neither was the familiar car, but what he did see made him feel as though he could have jumped straight up and flown. There was Belle, and there was his Papa, and he didn’t recognize the motor car they stood beside, but there was _his Papa._ His Papa dropped to one knee, and he took off without so much as paying mind to his cap as it flopped off of his head.

 _“Papa!”_ he squealed, bolting down the stone walk and out the gate, into his father’s arms almost before they were open. He threw his arms around his Papa’s neck and held on as tight as he was being held onto.

Rummond rose to his feet with his son still in his arms. Neal’s grip very nearly threatened his ability to breathe, but it was worth the risk of strangulation to hold his son and feel the love there in the elation of the boy’s greeting. His eyes stung, and he squeezed them shut against it.

“You got out!” his son said into his jacket collar.

Rummond had to work past the lump in his throat before he could respond. “I did, and I’ve been waiting all day to see you.”

“Out for good?” Neal asked, releasing his father only enough to lean back in his arms and see his face. “Really, for good?”

“For good,” Rummond assured him. “I promise.”

He felt Belle’s hand at his back before she reached up to run a hand over his son’s hair. Neal leaned his head against his father’s shoulder, one small hand clasped around the leather lapel of his jacket. Rummond saw Neal’s teacher dip down to take the little cap from the walk. She brought it over, handing it back to Belle with a smile. 

Neal turned to see his teacher, beaming. “My Papa got out of the hospital!”

“I can see that!” Mrs. Lapointe said, exchanging a pleased look with Rummond and Belle. “I’m happy for you. I know how badly you wanted him to be well.”

“We can go home now,” Neal decided as he patted his father’s shoulder.

Mrs. Lapointe started to reach for the cane lying on the ground near Rummond’s feet, but Belle got to it first. She passed it along to him, worried for his balance with the way he held his son to one side.

“We’re going to see the new flat,” Belle said, hoping to head off any confusion on Neal’s part before he took a headlong run into it. “Your Papa and I saw it this morning. I think you’ll like it.”

“Uh-huh, I meant there,” he said with a nod. “Let’s go?”

Neal sat between his Papa and Belle in the car, clinging to his Papa’s hand all the way back to the flat and only letting go to be relieved of his outdoor things once they’d gotten inside. He first investigated the living room, checking on how good the sofa was for sitting, leaning to peer out the window and having a look at the desk. He made a circle as he looked around. There wasn’t much there yet. He poked his head into the washroom and kitchen, looking into cabinets and the icebox.

Rummond sat him on the cabinet with a bottle of root beer, watching as his son took sips and peered around at the small room. He looked to Belle where she stood leaning in the narrow archway with her arms crossed loosely over her midsection. She gave him an encouraging smile.

“Well, what do you think of it thus far?” he asked, patting the boy’s knee.

“I like it,” Neal declared. “But it needs stuff.”

His father chuckled. “It does, at that. We’ll have a good bit added to it by the time we’re ready to move to the house, I’m sure.”

Neal nodded. He wiggled his feet, looking down at them. “Do I have a room?”

“Of course you’ve a room,” Rummond told him. “No matter where we go, there’ll be a room for my duckling. What did you think, that I might have you sleep on the ceiling?” he teased, attempting to lighten his son’s mood again.

The serious expression on Neal’s face wavered. “Nobody could sleep on the ceiling.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. There’s some animals can, I believe.”

“But not people!” Neal laughed, tilting his head back to look up at his Papa.

Rummond ruffled his son’s hair before planting a kiss right in the wildness of it. 

“Let’s go and see your room, hm?” Belle suggested. “I’ve seen it, and I think it’s going to turn out lovely.”

“It isn’t finished. The furniture is on its way,” Rummond explained as he lifted Neal down from the counter. “All of your things from the house are there. We can keep anything you wish to keep, and anything you might not want, we can find another home for it.”

Neal turned to leave his bottle on the counter, and he took the hand that his Papa offered before they went down the hallway. They stopped at just the next door down.

“This is my room?” he asked, leaning to look into the open room without letting go.

“This is your room,” Rummond asked. He urged Neal to go on in and stepped inside after him. “All yours, and we can fill it with anything you like.”

There wasn’t much to look at aside from wallpaper and boxes, but Neal looked around at it. “Can we make it like my room at Belle’s house?”

Rummond looked to her. “We can, as much as possible. The furniture I have on order is quite a lot like what you have there, she’s told me.”

Neal got down on his knees in front of one of the boxes and pulled the top open. Much of it was years too young for him now, but Rummond wondered how many of the things might be familiar to him.

“That’s all from your room in our old house. You remember?” he asked.

“I remember.” Neal nodded, pulling out a small wooden box filled with letter and number blocks. He smiled. “I remember you playing with me with these?”

“We did. We played on the nursery floor with them. You remember that?”

Neal nodded again, setting the blocks down and looking into the box. This time he found a pull toy - a wooden duck that was a bit worse for the wear. Its yellow paint had faded and chipped, and the knot at the end of its rope had frayed open. Placing it aside, he brought out a stuffed sheep toy with black button eyes, it body made of shearling so well-loved that it had become fuzzy.

“I remember him, too,” Neal said, petting one of the black felt ears.

Belle eased past Rummond, going to kneel down next to the little boy whose expression seemed far too old for his small face. She wrapped her arm around him and he leaned into her side. “We can arrange all of your old things here in your new room along with your other toys. How does that sound?”

“Okay,” Neal said, looking up at her. “I can bring Fleep?”

“You can bring anything you wish to, darling,” she told him, reaching to brush his hair away from his eyes. “Everything in your room that you think would like to move with you to your new room.”

He smiled, carefully setting the sheep in the top of the box.

“Why don’t we have dinner in town?” Belle suggested. “Mrs. Potts isn’t expecting us home at all early this evening, and I, for one, would enjoy having a dinner all our own tonight.”

“That sounds like a fine idea,” Rummond said. “Neal, what do you think?”

He echoed his father with a, “Fine idea,” and hopped up, leaning himself against Belle’s shoulder. 

Rummond simply looked at the pair of them, reveling in the pretty picture that they made. He felt as though all the love in the world existed in the room with them.

“There’s a restaurant down from the shops that should do nicely for us,” Belle went on. “It’s been fairly quiet every time I’ve been in.”

“That sounds just right,” he agreed, catching what she said a moment late in his daze.

Belle perched at the edge of the sofa to put Neal’s coat on him again. With a fondly put-upon look at Rummond for his part in the condition of the little boy’s hair, she did her best to tame it with her hands before accepting that there was only so much that she could do and putting his cap back on him anyway. She gave his chest a pat before reaching for her own things.

“I believe we’re ready,” she said as she slid her hatpin into place. 

The drive was short and dinner was lively despite the peaceful atmosphere of the restaurant, with a great deal of cheerful chatter and only a single incident involving an overturned water glass. Belle was quietly overjoyed to witness both Rummond and Neal clear their plates before ordering a bowl of the chef’s special _spaghetti alla bolognese_ to share between them, then demolishing separate desserts in the same manner.

Full and feeling the weight of a long day, they returned to the flat. Neal placed himself between them on the sofa and, not talked out, he chatted with both about his day until it was _quite_ time for he and Belle to go.

Belle turned her watch so that Rummond could see its face. He pulled in a deep breath, uncertain how roughly the last bit of their evening might go. He knew what Neal’s answer would be, but he also knew that his son needed to be given the choice rather than being shuffled off.

“Neal,” he began gently. “It’s almost time to go.”

Saying nothing, Neal only wriggled himself more firmly between them.

“Do you want to stay here, or do you want to go back with Belle tonight?” Rummond asked.

Neal looked from his Papa’s face to Belle’s, fiddling with the bottom button on his waistcoat. He hummed one long note, reluctant to say anything.

“Here. Come here,” his Papa said, reaching in to pull him out of the sofa cushions and bringing him around in front. He stood between his Papa’s knees, and his hands disappeared into his Papa’s bigger ones. 

“It’s all right, whatever you decide,” his Papa told him. “If you would feel better sleeping in your bed at Belle’s tonight, then that’s just fine.”

Belle scooted over into the space where Neal had been sitting. “If you would rather stay with your Papa tonight, then that’s all right, as well.”

“We only want you to be comfortable tonight, hm?” his Papa said. “We can make a pallet for you on the sofa here, or you can sleep in with me. But you have your bed and pajamas at Belle’s house, don’t you? You won’t hurt anyone’s feelings, whichever you decide.”

Neal twisted back and forth a little as he thought. The flat was new and strange and it smelled almost like the hospital. He wanted to be with his Papa, but he wanted his bed and Fleep and Belle, too. He wished that his Papa could just come and live in Belle’s house with them. That would fix _everything._ But they had to wait until after the wedding, they had told him. His Papa had said they would have a new house soon. That’s where they would all be together.

“Can I go home with Belle tonight?” he asked in a small, quiet voice, his words coming out slowly. He cringed a little after he spoke, unable to help it.

“That’s all right. You can go home with Belle if you want. That’s perfectly all right, duckling.” His Papa pulled him close, wrapping him up in a warm hug and kissing his cheek. “I’ll pick you up from school again tomorrow afternoon. How’s that?”

Neal nodded quickly, his worried frown slowly fading as he felt better again. He smiled at Belle when she leaned her chin on his Papa’s shoulder. They sat there for a moment, and he didn’t feel bad when they got up from the sofa to get ready to leave.

“Come to dinner tomorrow night,” Belle invited as they made their way out of the flat and toward the front door. “For that matter, come to dinner every night.”

Rummond’s eyebrows rose toward his hairline and he stopped in the middle of the hallway off the building entrance. “You- are you certain?”

“Yes. You should be there,” she said. “And you’ll need dinner. There’s no sense in you ever having dinner alone when we’re only a few minutes away.”

He smiled almost bashfully. “Your father won’t be unhappy about that?”

Belle made a rude sound and waved her hand. “It was bound to happen sooner or later, having you over every evening. There’s Neal to bring you by, and there’s me. Us, I mean. Our-” She grinned, stepping closer to touch the knot in his tie. “You and I.”

Rummond lifted his hands to settle at her waist. “You and I, the arrangement we’re in.”

“‘Arrangement,’” she repeated, half rolling her eyes. “We’ll need a better word soon.”

“Aye, we will.” He flexed his fingers, enjoying the give of her through her clothes and the way she drew a quick breath in response.

“I want you there, and you should be there. If you feel comfortable,” Belle told him, giving him an out just in case it wasn’t something that he truly wanted to sit through just yet.

“I want to,” he assured her. “Your father and I will get along. We did fine over Christmas.”

By the time they arrived at the car, the driver had the door open for them. He stood by, his attention seeming directed purposefully aside.

“I’ll see you tomorrow evening,” she said, letting her hand slide from the bend of his elbow. She took his hand in hers and went up on her toes to kiss him rather more chastely than she’d really have preferred.

Rummond smiled, squeezing her hand. “Before that, I hope.”

“Oh?” she asked, curious as to his meaning.

“What do you think of… lunch tomorrow?”

“You want to come by the hospital for lunch? I’d’ve thought you would be glad to see the last of the place.”

“Well, I haven’t a desire to be a patient again, but I’m not ready to give up our lunches simply because I’ve been released.”

She gave him a bright smile, plucking another kiss from his lips. “That sounds wonderful. I’d love to continue our lunches.”

Belle shooed Neal into the car ahead of her, then got in, herself. Neal leaned over her lap to wave at his Papa.

“Good night, duckling,” Rummond said with a little wave in return. He looked back to Belle. “Good night, love.”

“Good night…” She didn’t miss the forced cheer in his voice and expression.

“I wish you didn’t have to leave,” he admitted quietly.

Belle’s eyes closed for a second on the feeling that welled up inside her “So do I,” she told him before opening them again. “But I’ll see you tomorrow. We both will,” she said as Neal leaned into her lap again.

“See you tomorrow, Papa!” Neal called just a tad too loudly for how near they all were. “Every day!”

“Every day,” Rummond promised, giving his son a smile and wishing so hard that he could keep them with him _now_ that it hurt a bit.

After a very short and silent debate with the driver, he closed the door for her. He waited until the car made the turn in the road, leaving his sight, before he went back inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Please be on the lookout for an extra chapter coming mid-week!_


	146. Sleep Weel, My Bairnie, Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompts _\- shipperqueen93 prompted: Okay so the change in houses for Neal upsets his routine a bit and so when he wakes up in the middle of the night at first he's not sure if he should go to rum but eventually he does. Rum rocks him to sleep reciting the poem he did for Gideon on the show_
> 
> _ForeverYoungLadyAnne said: I hope we can read about Rummond asking for Belle's father's Blessing ! (...and about Maurice's reaction... A surprised, but finally positive one, I guess ?)]_

They arranged everything for Sunday morning, as Belle no longer needed to go in to the hospital early. Or at all on the weekend, really. It seemed prudent to adjust her schedule to ease the other changes in her extra-hospital life. She’d never intended on two night shifts a week; the second had only been added when she wished to spend more time around a certain patient and less in the presence of a certain lout who was now well out of the picture. Still, it was something that she would have to grow accustomed to. 

On Saturday, they’d done the last of preparations on the flat side of things. Neal’s room had furniture and bedding, as well as curtains and a heavy carpet to cover the greater portion of the wooden floor. They helped him to put away the older toys that he wanted to keep, and the rest went into a box along with his outgrown clothes to be donated appropriately. By the time they headed back to the French estate the evening before, the room was as ready as they could make it without the rest of Neal’s belongings.

There wasn’t enough to move to justify hiring someone to trundle it the few miles it had to go. Belle asked the groundskeeper if they might use his little lorry for the morning, and he was glad to make the trip from house to flat for them.

She’d given Rummond the task of packing Neal’s clothing, toys, and sundries so that he wouldn’t attempt the heavier work. The maids could easily have accomplished it all - and likely in less time - but she wanted to do it herself and he wanted to be of help. Lumiere and Horatio carried out boxes as they filled. Everything save furniture went. Books, toys, clothing, school and art supplies.

“Place something under the rockers so that it won’t wobble,” Belle told Lumiere as he lifted the rocking chair.

Rummond looked up in surprise. “Belle, love, that was your mother’s.”

“Yes, and that’s why it’s going with you.” She smiled over at him where he sat on the side on the small bed, folding pajamas and placing them neatly into the chest that customarily sat at the end of it.

“Are you certain?” he asked. “That’s an heirloom. The memories attached-”

“I have no occasion to use it outside of a child’s room. When Neal came here, it was the first time I’d so much as sat in that chair in years,” Belle told him as she gathered another stack of books from the shelf. She leaned down, arranging them into the last of the boxes. “It goes with you. And then it’ll go to the new house when we all do. I’d be happier knowing that you and Neal use it in the meantime.”

Rummond smiled. Thoughts of their future occupied him at every turn, but every mention _she_ made of it gave his head a delightful spin.

“This is everything,” she said, casting around a bit before closing the box full of books. “This and the chest, there?”

“As far as I can tell,” he agreed.

They could hear Neal’s thumping footsteps running up the stairs. Not a moment later, he came trotting in, holding a napkin that Belle could assume held some manner of sweets from Mrs. Potts. He went over to Rummond, and sure enough, he offered his father an almond biscuit.

“Thank you,” Rummond said, popping the entire thing into his mouth to avoid getting crumbs into his work.

Neal walked over to Belle, offering her a biscuit, as well. “It’s almost all gone.”

“What’s all gone?” she asked as she accepted one.

He looked up at the nearly empty bookcase. “All the stuff.”

“It’s being moved,” she told him with a smile. “Everything will be in your room in your flat.”

“In only a few minutes, matter of fact,” his Papa said.

Belle touched the boy’s cheek, and he smiled back up at her before she turned to take the last of the books off the bottom shelf. “Would you hand me the book from the table there? I’ll put it just on top, so we’ll see it right away.”

Neal fetched the very last book and took it over to her. She set it on top of the rest, and there was just enough room to close the box over it. Lumiere, standing by to carry it out, lifted the box and spirited it away to the lorry out front.

Rummond laid one last pair of small, tartan pajamas into the chest. “I believe I can take this down, myself.” 

Belle gave him a patient look. “Rummond.”

“It isn’t so heavy. Only clothes,” he said as he closed the lid. “I can carry it under my arm.”

“Rummond,” she repeated, followed by a pointed sigh.

He looked at her a bit askance. “Suppose it would be unwieldy, wouldn’t it?”

“It might, a little.” Finished, she crossed the room to him, standing close and resting her arm across his shoulders.

Neal climbed atop the chest, smiling up at his father. “You can carry me!”

“Oh, I can, can I?” Rummond leaned to catch his son beneath the arms, lifting the boy onto his lap. “You know, I think I will. That way we’ll not have to pack you into a box!”

Neal giggled and caught hold of his father’s shirtsleeves. “Not in a box with pointy stuff.”

“Only soft things. I’ll pack you in with the clothes, how is that?” Rummond teased, and Neal laughed all the harder.

“That’s the last of it,” Belle told Horatio when he came in to take the chest, letting her arm slip away from Rummond. “We’ll be right down.”

Horatio drove them over in the tourer while Lumiere, with Babette accompanying, followed in the groundskeeper’s lorry. Neal’s belongings ferried slowly in, and he helped to put away what Belle and his father handed to him.

Rummond set the great stuffed crocodile on top of the toy chest, once they’d emptied it of clothing, and Neal gravitated to it. He petted it from head to tail before asking shyly, “Can I move him?”

“Move anything you like,” his Papa told him. “It’s your room, duckling.”

“I want him where he was in my other room,” Neal said, wrapping his arms around the crocodile to pick it up. He moved it to the bed, placing it across the foot. Finding Fleep set aside on the bedside table, he took the teddy bear and leaned it against his pillow.

Belle gave Neal the task of putting away the toys that didn’t live in the toy chest. He set them carefully in the shelves that faced his new bed from the end, lining them up just so. They were his Papa’s idea, the shelves, so that he could put on display whatever he wished to be seen. His Papa had gotten him a great armoire for his clothes, as well. One side had a door with a mirror and space for hanging clothes, and the other side was a set of drawers. He couldn’t open the higher ones, but his Papa said that they would only use the ones that he was tall enough to reach.

“We’ve been so busy, I forgot to mention,” Belle said, turning with a handful of books. “Guess what I learned on Friday?”

Rummond took a pair of trousers from Neal. His son insisted on helping past putting toys away. “I haven’t the first clue.”

“Gormlaith Fowler, that awful woman who’s over the orphanage that Astrid grew up in? She’s been relieved of her position.”

“Has she, now? That’s some good news.”

Belle smiled, still exceptionally pleased over it. “Leroy took Astrid to a barrister in London who’s begun specializing in the mistreatment of children. She gave a nice, long testimony regarding how she and the other girls were treated, and they petitioned the courts to have Fowler removed.”

“And about time,” Horatio muttered as he brought in Belle’s rocking chair, waddling a bit under its weight. “Can’t count the girls who’ve ended up in a bad way because of that woman.”

“Put that a bit aside from the bed, please, Horatio?” Belle asked before she went on. “Sister Leah - one of the nuns who comes by the east ward every Sunday? She’s volunteered to take the job as Matron.”

“She’ll be a good one for the position, won’t she?” Rummond accepted an armful of button-downs from his son. “Never heard an unkind word from or about her.”

Belle shelved another stack of books, making certain that she took them in groups just as she’d packed them away. The bookcase was a good bit larger than the one in Neal’s previous room, and she thought it would be just over half filled by the time she was done. She’d acquired a goal to finish filling it for him. “She will. She’ll be good for the girls there. They all need some kindness.”

Babette put together a fine lunch out of Rummond’s kitchen, and then tea later on to keep them going through the moving and arranging. The narrow courtyard that Neal’s window looked out on had grown dark by the time they finished putting his room in order.

“Mrs. Potts is expecting us back soon,” Belle said, picking Neal up from his spot in the rocking chair so that she could sit, and she sat him back down on her lap. “I believe she has a special dinner planned.”

Neal, whose energy had been flagging, perked up. “I’m hungry again.”

“She didn’t have to go to so much trouble.” Rummond straightened the bedclothes, replacing Fleep on the pillow when he was done.

Belle looped her arms around Neal. “She wanted to. She’s going to miss this one being around the house almost as much as I am.”

“Papa, I’m hungry,” Neal said again, to make certain his father heard.

“No worries,” Rummond told his son. “We’re going. We couldn’t turn down a dinner invitation from Belle, could we?”

“Nope!” Neal chirped. He leaned back against her, satisfied that they were going.

Checking her watch, Belle set Neal on his feet and stood. “Horatio will be getting antsy about the time by now,” she said as she pulled the rocking chair into a better position. With the moving and carrying all seen to, the others had gone home soon after tea.

“I’m ready,” Neal declared, bolting out the door of his room.

Rummond called after him, “Not without your cap and coat!”

“I got them!” his son called back.

Belle grinned as she reached for Rummond’s hand, tugging him toward the hallway. “Oh yes, you’ll handle him just fine.”

For the past week, Mrs. Potts had increased her doting by tenfold, as though she were sending Neal off to another continent rather than just down the road. She’d been preparing his favorite meals and desserts for days, and tonight was no different. The main dish was one that Neal devoured seconds - and often thirds - of when it came ’round the table. With a look on her face that was proud and not a little wistful, Mrs. Potts brought out a serving tray that held an artfully arranged bacon-wrapped roast chicken ringed by small new potatoes and carrots. One of the kitchen girls followed with a basket of enormous yeast rolls half as big as Neal’s head and a tureen of buttered green peas that it tickled him to chase around the plate with his fork. For dessert there was cherry preserve cake, which Mrs. Potts claimed with a wink to have ‘stumbled’ as she added the cherries into. One might have imagined they were having a feast and not a simple family dinner.

Rummond and Belle steered clear of talk that delved too far into the future, hoping to save such discussion for a more opportune evening. They were successful, for a time. Until, after Maurice asked for Neal’s opinion on his new accommodations, it occurred to the boy to declare his opinions plainly.

“I like it! I have a window, and there’s a _big_ window in the sitting room, and Papa’s room is right by mine, like Belle’s is here! But Papa said it’s just for a little while,” he answered around a mouthful of bread. “B’cause when Papa finds a house and him and Belle get married, we can all move there together, and I’ll have a whole new room there again.”

Belle’s gaze flicked to Rummond across the table from her, and she found him doing the same. The table went silent and quite still while they waited for her father’s response.

“Well, I’m certain your father will find a house just right. Something larger, eh?” Maurice said, seeming to pay more attention to the carrot he’d speared than Neal’s cheerful patter. “At some point you’ll need more room than a flat can provide.”

“Aye…” Rummond said warily, exchanging another look with Belle. He caught her shoulders shaking with the tremors of a smothered laugh. “I’ve my eye on a few possibilities here nearby.”

They managed to get through dinner with no further startling turns in conversation. Maurice excused himself to go to his study while Belle took Rummond and Neal into the sitting room, where a low fire awaited them.

Neal snuggled himself down between Belle and Rummond on the settee, sleepy, full, and already tumbling headlong into a catnap. She petted the hair over his temple and thought about his room upstairs. 

Tomorrow, Lumiere would oversee putting the smaller furniture back into storage and replacing it with the guest room furniture that had occupied the room before it belonged to Neal. Tomorrow, it would be as light and empty and impersonal as every other guest room in the house. Just now, however, with only bare furnishings and none of the personal belongings it had been home to for so many months, no little boy to belong to, it seemed gutted.

She didn’t want to think of it, and there was no way she would go into the room. As happy as she was for Neal and Rummond that they would finally be together in the flat, she couldn’t help feeling the smallest bit bereft that Neal would no longer be just next door to her.

Belle looked up at Rummond. He appeared as though he might just follow Neal at any moment. She smiled, moving her hand from Neal’s hair to his father’s cheek, stroking the back of her fingers along his cheekbone.

“Rum?” she whispered.

He didn’t open his eyes, humming a quiet, “Hmm?” in response to her.

In the hours when he wasn’t in the company of Belle and his son over the past week, Rummond had been rattling around the flat alone. He had a hard time getting to sleep without the noise of the ward around him. Here, though, with the quiet sounds of a house, with the two of them close, he felt as though he could rest. 

Belle didn’t speak for so long that he opened his eyes, turning to look at her. She was leaning her head against the back of the settee, looking right back at him.

“I was thinking,” she said softly. “Perhaps you should ask for my father’s blessing. Before you ask a particular question of me. In an official manner, I mean.”

“Blessing?” He gave her a bit of an odd look.

“It would make him feel better, I think. He isn’t a complete fool. He knows what’s about to happen. He feels as though everything’s been taken out of his hands. He wouldn’t _say_ anything, not after the entire miserable debacle with Donat. But I think it would make him happy to be asked.” She settled her arm across the back of the settee, behind him, stroking the ends of his hair through her fingertips. The grin she gave him was a soft one. “Not that it’ll have an impact on my answer either way. It would be nice for him, though.”

Rummond leaned into the gentle motion of her hand. “It wouldn’t offend you, my asking him?”

“Not as I’ve asked you to, myself,” she told him with a smile.

He nodded, indulging in the way Belle’s fingers grazed his neck for a moment longer before he eased Neal’s weight off him and onto her. He shifted to the edge of the cushion, taking his cane to leverage himself as he got up.

“Where are you going?” she asked, the hand that had been in his hair now open in question.

Stopping just in front of her, he bowed to give her a quick kiss. “To have a talk with your father. No time like the present.”

Rummond made his way through the house to the door he knew as Belle’s father’s study. He gave it a tap with the handle of his cane, and he waited.

“Come in,” Maurice answered. He looked up from his desk as Rummond opened the door. “Ah, Captain Gold. Ready to take the boy home, are you?”

“Not just yet…” Rummond took a steadying breath, closing the door behind him. Belle’s father gave him a curious look. “Mr. French-”

“Maurice,” he corrected.

“Maurice. I’ve something to speak with you about. Briefly, I hope.”

Belle’s father gestured to the chair across from his desk. Rummond took it, resting his hands on his cane between his knees. He couldn’t help noticing that Maurice suddenly looked a bit apprehensive, and he was rather certain the man had figured it out, now. Talking the long way around it would only give Maurice time to build up any possible arguments and give Rummond’s own nerves time to jangle themselves further.

“Before too long, now, I’ve plans to ask Belle to marry me,” he said, hoping that it came out at a proper speed and pitch.

Maurice’s expression didn’t change a jot. “Ah.”

The pair of men stared at one another for what felt like perhaps _the_ longest single moment of Rummond’s life. 

“Does my daughter know that you’re in here right now?” Maurice asked at last.

Rummond nodded. “She does.”

Maurice nodded likewise, his lips thinning as he pressed them together.

“I’m asking your blessing.”

“Yes, I did assume as much.”

Another silence fell over the study as Maurice eyed him, stretching until it bordered on painful.

“My daughter loves you,” he said.

It took all of Rummond’s self-control to keep from beaming. “And I love her. Very much.”

“Your son loves her, as well,” Maurice observed.

“Aye, he does,” Rummond agreed. “A great deal.”

Maurice nodded again. “And you can take care of her.”

“I can. Quite well.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “As well as she’ll allow me.”

Her father hummed in understanding. “You do know her, don’t you.”

Rummond could no longer keep down the smile that broke through. “I daresay I’ve gotten started.”

“I’ve never heard Belle speak of anyone the way she speaks of you. Even before she informed me straight out how she felt about you. I should have known. Would have, if I’d listened properly.” Maurice leaned back in his desk chair with a creak of leather.

Rummond didn’t quite know what to say. Her father didn’t leave him floundering for long, however.

“You’ve my blessing, Captain Gold,” Maurice granted. “Though I’m fairly certain it isn’t as though you require it. If she’s set her mind to marrying you, I don’t believe anything as trivial as a lack of my blessing could keep her from it.”

“Thank you,” Rummond said, pushing himself up and extending a hand across the desk.

Maurice took his hand, giving it a firm shake. “Make my daughter happy.”

“I’ll do everything in my power to make certain of it,” Rummond promised. “I should get back to she and Neal, if we’ve done?”

“Yes, indeed. I’ll accompany you,” Maurice said, shuffling together a handful of papers before he hefted himself up from the chair. 

Rummond stepped out into the hallway, waiting for Belle’s father to join him. 

“Honestly,” Maurice began with a lilt of amusement as he left his study. “Belle behaves as though I don’t listen to a thing that comes out of that child’s mouth. As though he hasn’t remarked upon houses and weddings and been shushed by her a half dozen times in the past month alone.”

“At dinner…?” Rummond said, glancing over.

“Well, as you and my daughter didn’t appear inclined to take up the line of discussion that your son broached, I did have the idea I was being discreet.” Maurice snorted noisily. “Now it becomes apparent that I didn’t come off as such.”

Belle gave Rummond a questioning look as he and her father walked in. He smiled in answer, and he saw her sigh through the smile that she returned him. 

“Neal, darling,” she said, giving him kiss atop the head. “It’s time to go home.”

“It’s gotten late, hasn’t it?” Rummond looked to his son, who half roused with Belle’s encouragement.

Her smile turned a touch regretful. “Unfortunately.”

They’d planned the day and evening quite well, the two of them. The excitement of moving would tire wee Neal out, and dinner would finish off his energy. He would be too worn through for any potential upset. It was what they hoped, anyway. Rummond leaned down, gathering his son into his arms.

Mrs. Potts met them in the entryway. Her hands wrung themselves together. “I wanted to tell the lad goodbye. Good night. Oh, you know.”

“Neal,” Rummond said, patting his back. “Let’s say good night to Mrs. Potts, hm?”

“Mrs. Potts,” Neal murmured, lifting his head from his Papa’s shoulder. His eyes batted with the attempt to wake. He leaned toward her, opening his arms.

She took Neal when he reached, squeezing him close to her bosom and kissing his face. Mrs. Potts smelled like bread rolls and cherry preserves. He giggled sleepily and returned a kiss on her soft cheek. 

“We’ll just be five miles that way.” He repeated what his Papa had told him.

“I know, dear. I know,” she said, and she gave his cheek another kiss.

Maurice stepped closer, meaning to say good night without causing too much disturbance. It was more difficult than he thought it would be. When Neal caught him so near, the boy reached out to hug him about the neck, still in Mrs. Potts’ arms.

Belle could have sworn that she saw tears in her father’s eyes. She patted his shoulder. “Only five miles that way,” she whispered to him, as well. “And we’ll be seeing him every evening for dinner.”

Maurice cleared his throat and waited until Neal was being returned to his father’s arms before responding with an equally quiet, “Yes. Well. He’ll not be just upstairs, will he.”

There were quicker goodbyes to Lumiere, Josephine, and Babette, who turned up in the entryway, as well. Belle saw Rummond and Neal into the tourer. She leaned in under the pretext of getting Neal situated safely next to his father, pressing a kiss to the boy’s cheek. While there, she took the chance to kiss Rummond once more, as well.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, lingering in the car door. 

“Noon,” Rummond agreed. He smiled up at her. “Noon sharp. And then you’ll see Neal for dinner, love. We’ll be all right ’til then.”

“I know you will.” Belle nodded. “I love you.”

“I love you.” He reached to draw a fold of her skirt through his fingers.

“Tell Neal that I love him, when you put him to bed?” she asked.

Before Rummond could answer, a small, muffled, “Love you…” came from the boy burrowed into his side.

She smiled softly down at him, shaking her head. If she had her way, she’d have climbed right into the car with the pair of them. “Go on. Before we say good night all night long.”

Belle took a step back, closing the door and patting the roof of the tourer. Rummond lifted a hand in farewell, and she waved back to them as they pulled away from the house. She wrapped her arms around herself, as though she might reach out for the car if she didn’t stop herself from it.

Rummond only realized that he was half dozing when Horatio said, “We’ve arrived at your flat, Captain Gold. Shall I see you in?”

“No, no, I’m all right for it,” he said, though he was mildly surprised when Horatio made quick work of getting out and opening the door before he could for himself.

He figured to have to pull his son bodily from the car, sound asleep as Neal had been, but the boy wakened enough to climb down with a held hand. Rummond waited until they were indoors to lift his son onto his hip again. He caught his cane beneath his arm so that he could unlock the door and let them in.

“Are you in need of a bath?” he asked.

“Belle said I don’t need one.”

“All right, then. Bed?”

Neal gave a sleepy sigh. “Story?”

“Why, of course a story,” Rummond told him as they made their way down the hall.

He stepped through the open door of his son’s room, pausing to turn the switch for the light. Having put away Neal’s pajamas, he knew just which drawer they were in. Getting Neal into them, however, proved interesting. It was more difficult to get pajamas onto a half-asleep child of his son’s size than it ever had been as a toddler. He got Neal ready for bed, though, and laid his clothes out to air.

Neal climbed beneath the covers with Fleep held securely in one arm and squirmed over to leave space for his father to sit next to him. Glad to find that Belle had placed the required and correct bedtime story on the bedside table, he took it up and opened the book to the marked page.

“Let’s see here,” he said, glancing down to find himself watched through drowsy but most definitely aware little eyes. “Ah, here we are. _‘Mary ran so fast that she was rather out of breath when she reached her room. Her hair was ruffled on her forehead and her cheeks were bright pink. Her dinner was waiting on the table, and Martha was waiting near it.’”_

By the end of the chapter, Rummond was certain that his son slept. He placed the book on the table again and started to reach for his cane.

“Kiss, Papa?” Neal asked as soon as his father’s weight shifted on the mattress

Rummond smiled. “Oh, aye. What is a tuck-in without a kiss?” 

He leaned down, and his son took hold of his face between small, warm hands. The gesture was sweetly demanding, and he narrowly avoided a laugh. Neal held his hands there until he was given the peck on the lips that he clearly remembered.

“Good night, and have sweet dreams,” Rummond wished him, watching as he wriggled onto his side and stuck his thumb in his mouth. He pulled the blanket over Neal’s shoulder, tucking it around the small, curled shape of him. “I’m right next door, if you need me. The door just beyond yours. Remember?”

“Night, night, night, sweet dreams,” his son repeated slowly, drifting off. 

He left the light as it was until he’d changed into his pajamas and seen to his bedtime washroom ritual. After one more look in, he switched the light off and left the door cracked, leaving his own bedroom door likewise ajar. If Neal called for him, he wanted to be able to hear.

Rummond got into his own bed. He slid down between the cool sheets with a shiver and pulled the covers up high. His fingers skimmed across the patchwork and stitches of his quilt. Belle’s stitches. Her hands having touched every inch of the fabric and thread. He closed his eyes, doing his best to feel her there with him.

It was all dark when Neal opened his eyes. He didn’t know what time it was or how long he had been asleep, but he felt the need to not be by himself. He sat up, holding Fleep to his chest. When he felt this way, he always went down to Belle’s room, and that’s what he wanted to do now. He looked around. The longer he had his eyes open, the more he could see. A little bit of light came in through the window between his bed and desk. He scooted to the edge of the bed and climbed down. 

There was no Belle here. Neal remembered that he was in the flat. He hugged Fleep tight and walked carefully over to the door, poking his head out. He could go to his Papa’s room. His Papa said that he could. His Papa had said it was okay, but everything was so different and there was no light at all in the hallway.

He looked back at his room, wishing that he could take some light with him. He felt lost in the dark. Making himself brave, he went out into the hallway.

Running his hand along the wall right from his door, he found the tiny corner that led to his Papa’s room. His Papa’s door was open a bit, too, and he pushed it wider. There was some light coming through the windows there the way it was in his room, and he could see to get to the bed.

He pulled on the covers. “Papa? Papa?”

His Papa sat up, turning on the bedside lamp right away. “Are you all right?”

Neal started to climb up onto the bed, and his Papa reached to help him, bringing him up easily. His Papa wrapped him up in his arms, and he snuggled in close.

“Did you have a bad dream?” his Papa asked with a worried look, and he shook his head. His Papa asked again, “Are you all right?”

Neal nodded, and he felt his Papa pet his hair.

“You didn’t want to be alone?”

Neal wondered how his Papa knew. He nodded again, pressing his face into the front of his Papa’s pajama shirt, feeling one of the buttons touch his nose.

“Can I sleep in here?” Neal asked quietly.

“You most certainly can,” his Papa said, wrapping him up in a tight hug. He felt his Papa pull the covers up around him, too. “Do you remember this quilt?”

He did remember. “Belle gave it to you at Christmas.”

“And do you remember what’s so special about it?” his Papa asked.

Neal shook his head.

“She _made_ it.” His Papa ran a hand over the patterns in the cloth. “Some of your old clothes are in here, and some of hers. She made this for me so that I wouldn’t be so lonely for both of you while I was on the ward, so that I would have little bits of both of you there with me always.”

He raised his head, looking up at his Papa. “Did it work?”

His Papa smiled at him. “It did, a bit.”

Neal relaxed into his Papa’s arms. After a couple of minutes, he felt his Papa begin to sway them, and then felt a kiss on top of his head.

 _“‘Sleep weel, my bairnie, sleep,’”_ his Papa began softly. _“‘The lang, lang shadows creep. The fairies play on the munelicht brae, an’ the stars are on the deep…’”_

He didn’t understand all of the words his Papa said, but he felt his Papa’s voice rumble. His eyes were sleepy again as he listened to the words and felt his Papa sway back and forth. He closed them, and with his Papa holding him and Belle’s quilt keeping him warm, everything was okay enough to go back to sleep.


	147. An Earlier Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(There was[an extra chapter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2730107/chapters/26311596) on Wednesday this week, just in case anyone missed it.)_

“I miss Belle at bedtime,” Neal said, following as his father went to take out a block of cheese.

Rummond closed the icebox door and glanced to see his son before turning around. After one bump with his cane and a wobbling lip, he had learned to turn carefully in the small kitchen when Neal was with him. 

“I know, duckling. Here,” he said, putting the paper-wrapped package on the counter and lifting Neal to sit next to it. “We have most evenings with her, though, and weekends. And when we move into the house, she’ll be with us at bedtime every night.”

Neal watched as he began to slice pieces from a dark loaf of bread. “When will that be?”

“Well, the first step to it is finding a house,” Rummond told him. He spread the end crust with a good layer of butter and handed it to his son.

“House, first step.” Nibbling the bread thoughtfully, Neal asked, “What’s the others?”

“We’ll have to get the house ready. That’ll be a bit like the way we got the flat here ready, only it might take a good bit longer, because the house will be _so_ much bigger.” Rummond moved on to a loaf of light wheat bread, slicing a good few pieces from it, as well. “Then there’s the wedding. The wedding will take a little while to get to, but it’ll go quickly when it does. Finding a house for us is first, though. Think on that one,” he said, going back to anchor the boy’s thoughts there.

Neal took another bite of his bread, chewing quietly.

They’d been visiting the French estate for dinner every evening, including Belle’s Wednesday night shift, so that Neal could see everyone. It was an easy trip over, and it meant that they didn’t have to eat at the two-seat kitchen table in the flat by themselves. With the twice daily hired car he had scheduled with the company, he’d come to realize that he needed a motor car of his own. That was easier to see to and far less of an agonizing decision than a house, though.

He and Neal had accompanied Belle and her father - and Mrs. Potts and Christopher, as well - to church the previous Sunday for the Easter service. It was the first time he’d set foot in a church in more years than he could remember. Despite not being terribly frequent attendees, Maurice had wanted them to tell the minister of their plans to marry, as he would be the eventual officiant. Said minister was round and ruddy-faced, cheerful and kind, and bade them only let him know when and where his services were required.

“What kind of sandwiches?” Neal asked. “Walnuts?”

“I don’t know that I could make walnut sandwiches to compare with Belle’s or Mrs. Potts,” Rummond said, and he rolled a small radish toward his son. “Radish and cream cheese for the pumpernickel. Roast beef and onions for the wheat bread.”

“Onions…” Neal pointed out with a wrinkled nose.

“Cooked ones, not raw,” his father said. “We’ll see how you feel about them when they’re done. If it’s still this face, I’ll make a few for you without. How’s that?” Rummond reached up, giving the boy’s nose a gentle tweak.

Neal hummed as he’d heard his father do. “Hmm, we’ll see.”

When they’d discovered that school would be out of session for the day, Rummond had taken Neal along to brave the grocer’s for what lunch supplies he didn’t have. He’d discovered that there were fewer people around if he went in early in the morning. On this morning in particular, he was glad of it. The grocer had a small stock of oranges that would surely have been bought up if he’d gone any later. Recalling Belle’s wish in the winter for fresh fruit, he’d taken half a dozen to put in the basket. When he visited Belle for their daily lunch, they usually ate from a pair of trays from the kitchen. He’d decided to fix up something a bit different for today.

“Papa?” his son asked with a suspicious singsong to his voice.

“Yes?” Rummond said, imitating the boy’s tone.

Neal held the tip of his tongue between his teeth for a moment before asking, “Are you going to give Belle a ring?”

“A ring?” Rummond did his best to ask with a straight face. “What do you know of rings?”

“Nurse Lucas has a ring. A pretty one,” his son pointed out. “She said Dr. Whale gave it to her when they talked about getting married.”

He chuckled. “Did he, now?” 

Neal nodded quickly. “And Nurse Lucas said that when you see a pretty ring, it means something very good will happen.”

“Oh, did she?”

“Are you going to give Belle one?”

Rummond leaned close to whisper, “I am. Before too long, now. What do you think of helping me to choose it?”

Neal’s face lit up, and it occurred belatedly to Rummond that he perhaps should have waited until after lunch to continue such a conversation. 

“I can help!” Neal squeaked. “When can we go?”

“Not today. And we can’t talk of it in front of Belle. All right?” Rummond said. “This is something that’s important to keep a secret right up until I give the ring to her. A bit like Christmas. You don’t tell about presents, do you?”

“No telling about presents,” Neal agreed with a shake of his head.

Rummond offered him a cube of cheese he’d cut from the slab of hard, sharp cheddar. “You and I will plan a time to go.”

“We’ll find a pretty one.” Neal wiggled happily, reaching for the bit of cheese. “Very, very pretty?”

“That we will. We’ll find something pretty and just right for our Belle.” He patted his son’s nearer knee and bent to open the cabinet door. “Pick up your feet here for a second, I need a pan.”

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

Neal had been back with his father for ten days, and the house still felt odd and off-kilter without him. Her own ache over it had lessened once her heart settled into the routine of seeing him nearly every day. 

Belle left the ward after checking in on Captain Lapointe’s wounds. They were at last able to leave off his bandages entirely. The neosalvarsan had done its job, and she was glad to take him off it, as well. The chemical burns she’d worried would kill him before they healed had settled into scar tissue - not pretty, but harmless and far less likely to become infected.

She checked her watch. It was nearing on lunchtime. The weariness of her long shift lifted and her steps quickened with the promise of an hour with Rummond.

As she approached her office, she heard a pair of familiar voices, and a smile bloomed across her face. She opened the door to find Neal stood between his father’s knees, patting Rummond’s open hands with his own. 

“Belle!” The little boy ran to her as soon as he saw her, throwing his arms around her hips before she could lean down for a hug. When he stepped back, she did just that, pressing a noisy kiss to his cheek for good measure and delighting in the squealing giggle it brought from him.

“And how have we gotten you to come ’round for lunch on a school day?” she asked, not particularly caring if his father _had_ decided to keep him out just today. They would have dinner without her at home tonight, so it was the loveliest of surprises to see them both.

“It’s too hot,” Neal replied, pulling a face.

“Someone left the boiler too high through the night,” Rummond explained as he stood so that he could claim his own greeting. “It’s too warm in the building for classes, so we’ve an unexpected lunch guest.”

“I wish I could thank whomever left the boiler on,” she teased. Rummond’s arms slipped around her, and she wrapped her own about his neck, drawing herself up enough to kiss him. “I’m happy to see both of you. It’s been such a long shift.”

“Anything you want to talk about?” Rummond asked in concern.

She shook her head, smiling up at him. “Absolutely not. Not when I have lunch and company so fine waiting for me.”

“I’m opening lunch!” Neal declared, heading for the picnic basket that sat on the end table.

Belle gave Rummond another kiss for good measure before letting go. She went over to Neal and their basket, looking down over his head to see what they’d brought.

“You made all of this?” she asked.

Neal tipped his head back, beaming up at her. “We made it all!” 

“Don’t look shocked.” Rummond pretended offense. “I do know how to put together a meal. Just wait until you see me cook properly.”

“Now that’s something I’ll look forward to.” She took his hand when he stepped close enough, this time urging him down for a kiss. “What all do we have here, then?”

He smiled and she felt his hand stroke down the middle of her back. “Come and sit, and we’ll show you.” 

“Let me make a bit more space for us.” Belle tripped the mechanism in one sofa arm to lay it down, then did the same to the other before she sat on the end farthest from the door, tucking her foot beneath her. “We’ve had many lunches with less room to spread out.”

Neal claimed the center of the sofa and Rummond took the other end, facing the two of them and taking the picnic basket to hold on his lap. “We’ve two sorts of sandwiches to choose from.” He took a pair of covered plates out, handing one across to Belle and setting the other between himself and Neal. “Radish and cream cheese here, and roast beef and onions. Any and all you like.”

“Don’t worry, the onions are good,” Neal informed her with a nod, as though she’d doubted. “Papa cooked them and made them brown and soft, and they’re _good.”_

“Oh, that’s wonderful to know,” Belle said, trading an amused look with Rummond.

“Dates, cheese, and roasted hazelnuts,” he said as he produced a covered bowl from the basket. Rummond reached in again, hesitating for a moment. He looked up at her before pulling something out with a grand flourish and presenting it to her. “And oranges.”

“Oranges!” Belle gasped, taking it. She pressed her nails into the peel and held it to her nose, breathing deeply. She looked at him over top of it. “Mmm. You do know I love you?”

He gave her one of his lopsided smiles. She could see the apples of his cheeks go pink. “Well, you’d mentioned wanting fruit, and I saw them at the grocer’s… I love you, too.”

She put a hand on the back of the sofa to pull herself forward, leaning over Neal to give Rummond a quick, plucking kiss.

“There’s cake, too!” Neal said from between them. “I picked it!”

“Apple spice cake,” Rummond told her as she sat back again. “He saw it in the bakery window and there was no passing it by.”

She caught Neal’s chin in her hand and gave his face an affectionate wag. “I love apple spice cake.”

Neal smiled proudly over at his father. He pulled the napkin up on the plate full of short, narrow roast beef finger sandwiches and began stacking them on his palm. Rummond clucked his tongue and gave his son a plate, and Neal moved them over without a single idea that the plate was better to eat from than his hand.

“We’ve lemonade to drink with it all,” Rummond said as he passed a plate to Belle. 

She took it, snickering softly. “The entire basket sounds delicious.”

They were reaching end of the meal, sharing orange segments, when Rummond sent Neal off to wash his face and hands before he got the room sticky ceiling to floor. Once Neal had gone off to do as told, Rummond wiped his fingers on a napkin and reached into his jacket where he’d laid it over the back of the sofa. He took a little notepad from the pocket. Belle had seen it a handful of times over the last couple of weeks. He had been doing a bit of looking at houses while Neal was in school during the day, writing down information in the pages and showing her what he had at the first chance to see her. 

“You’ve found another?” she asked, popping one last segment into her mouth. She crushed the juice from it and wiped the orange from her own hands. 

“I have.” Rummond opened the leather cover and flipped through until he found where he’d penciled down features. Bedrooms and washrooms, size and amenities, repairs and adjustments that might need making. “I think this one…”

Belle held out her hand. “That good, hm?” 

“The best I’ve had a walk through thus far, I think?” He folded the used pages back and gave the notepad to her. “Nothing _quite_ as big as your house now, but-”

“Oh, pff. We don’t need ten bedrooms and pillars across the front, for heaven’s sake.” She studied the notes he’d kept.

“It’s still nice and big. Spacious. And it isn’t far up the road from Neal’s school,” Rummond explained. “Nearer than the flat, even. We could walk there during fair weather. It’s a touch nearer the hospital and your father, as well.”

“What’s the address?” she asked, turning back to the first page. He always noted it at the very top.

“Over on Chaisteal Street, number one-twelve. It’s built of Cotswold stone the color of honey,” he told her with a smile. “And there’s a back garden.”

Belle grinned up at him. “Neal approves?”

“He’s not seen it yet, but I’ll be certain to have him give it a yea or nay.” Rummond laughed. “It’s enclosed, nice and expansive. Though, there are no lizards. That’s always a disappointment. I’ve told him you might be willing to allow him to transplant a few, if we find a house without them.”

She gave him a tickled look. “Did you honestly ask about garden lizards?”

“Ask? I looked for them myself,” he said, giving her a wink.

“I believe I know the place. It _is_ a beautiful house,” she said, handing his notepad back to him.

He tucked it into his jacket pocket again. “You’ve seen it? Inside and out?”

“Well, not the inside. I can imagine how lovely it is, judging by how well-kept the outside is. And if it’s lived up to _your_ stringent standards for a house, well, then.” Belle scooted over to his side of the sofa, nestling herself into his side.

“Do you like it, though?” he asked quietly. “I want you to have a part in making the decision.”

“It’s just right,” she assured him. “The house, the distance. You. It’s perfect, every bit.”

“You’re certain?”

“I’ve never been so certain.”

Belle slid her hand up and over his shoulder, catching her fingers at the nape of his neck. She felt the quick breath he drew before she kissed him. A gentle scrape of her teeth against his lower lip and moment of drawing it between her own lips later, and his hand was clinging to the back of her apron. It was enough to sent her ego a fair way into the atmosphere.

“I’ll make a detour,” he said, a little breathless, “Put in an offer on the property on our way back to the flat.”

Belle smiled, though they were too close for him to see it. “Good. There’s that taken care of.”

There came the sound of Neal’s little boots slapping the tile in the corridor, heading back to them at a run. She leaned to kiss Rummond once more, knowing they’d soon have a son requesting his seat back.

“He’ll be telling us to set a date when he hears we have a house decided on,” he told her as her hand slipped away from his neck.

Neal pushed the door open, declaring, “All washed!”

She smiled up at Rummond as the little boy gave them a squint for taking his spot on the sofa, proceeding to simply take his space back in her lap. “I might just encourage that,” she said, helping him up.


	148. Where the Heart Can Laugh

She looked up at the house from the little stone path that cut through the front garden. The sight stole her breath for a moment, and Belle understood why Rummond was so taken with it.

It took just over a week to arrange things so that they could begin making their own improvements on the property. This morning was her first time going to have a look at it with the purpose of beginning to incorporate it into her thoughts as _their_ house rather than _a_ house. She’d seen it before, after all. She had likely passed it by a hundred times going one direction or the other, and she knew well what it looked like. 

Truly _seeing_ it in the knowledge that her family would live there turned out to be a different thing entirely. 

Belle wandered off the path and into the grass in her state of awe. The place was fairly sizable, though not nearly as sprawling as the French estate; she was content with that. She’d grown up in a house where you couldn’t hear someone yell at the top of their lungs from one end to the other, and she had no desire to live in a place so massive for the rest of her life. The small manor before her was more than enough for the three of them and any additions they might create, and that was enough to make her beyond happy.

She had assumed Rummond’s remark about the stone likely some bit of hyperbole. The stone really was such a beautiful color, though - warm and sunshiny golden. The weather was a little overcast, but the house managed to seem as though it had a light of its own. She was struck with an immediate affection for the place. She wanted to know every inch of it, inside and out. Trees and shrubs, hallways and roofing tiles. The entire property filled her with a surprising longing after it. And it made her all the happier when she reminded herself that it was _theirs._

“Miss?” Horatio asked from next to the car. “Shall I wait?”

“No, I…” Belle’s intended words faded when she turned to speak to him. 

Another motor car sat in front of the house, parked just outside of the short, surrounding stone wall. Horatio had stopped the tourer just behind it. She’d been so enamored of the house that she had missed it entirely. Walking back over, she circled the obviously spanking new car and rested her hand on the bonnet.

“It’s all right. Go on home,” she told Horatio with a shake of her head. She patted her pocket, reassuring herself. “I’ve a feeling Rummond has discovered his own transportation.”

When Horatio had gone, she cupped her hands to peer through the side glass. It was a pretty, cream painted Humber in a saloon style. The car was big - more than big enough for Rummond, Neal, and herself. Belle had a feeling that he was thinking a bit ahead, as well. She hazarded the thought that it had a nicer look to it even than her father’s Sunbeam.

She made her way back up the path and to the front door, brushing off the instinct to knock. “Oh, my goodness…” Belle whispered to herself, smiling as she opened the door. 

She stepped into a wide entryway leading to a choice of open doors to either side, as well as an oaken staircase and hallway ahead. The space seemed a bit cavernous, but when it had been filled in with a couple of tables, perhaps a nice piece of framed art, it would cozy right up. Despite the dated wallpaper and clear need of a scrub, it was absolutely lovely.

In search of Rummond, she chose the pair of open double doors to her left. They led into a generous room covered in fading green wallpaper detailed with silver foil. Once inside, she looked around and found that the doors were flanked by a pair of gas sconces, and she wondered how much trouble it would be to switch them for electric lights. There was wiring mounted along the top of the wall, extending down in a few places to mark where floor and table lamps once sat. Belle called Rummond’s name as she neared another set of doors on the far side of the room.

“Here!” he sang back to her from somewhere else in the house.

“Rummond?” She turned to go back to the entryway, walking down to the hallway that stretched into the right side of the house.

The flow of the rooms felt as though it were a home that had been added onto for generations. It likely had. Many of the larger homes in the area - those that weren’t built whole and on plan by the nobility, at least - had been expanded in such a way as families became wealthier. It made for an interesting layout.

Belle peered into a larger room that lay behind the first door. “Rummond?” 

“In here!” he called, and she followed farther down.

“It’s beautiful,” she said as she reached the door to her right. Looking up, she found an oblong plaster medallion in the center of the ceiling, and plaster detail in the corners, as well. “Needs a little cleaning and sprucing up here and there, but it’s beautiful.”

“Anything you want changed, love, we can change,” he said. “Anything at all.”

Belle looked toward his voice, glad to have found him at last, and there she discovered him up a ladder. She squawked in startlement. “What in heaven’s name are you doing?”

Rummond rested a hand on the top of the old wooden safety ladder for balance as he looked down at her. “A bit of work?” he responded sheepishly. 

“Please come down?” she asked. He started down the rungs and she stretched up to grab the back of his waistcoat, worried that he might fall and hurt himself. “You’ll land yourself in the hospital again, for heaven’s sake,” she chided gently. “And this time in a real cast. If you’re lucky.”

When Rummond reached solid ground, he was met with a flustered and scolding look. “I wouldn’t have fallen.”

She hummed, and rather than letting go of his clothes when he turned to her, she wrapped her other arm around him, as well. Pressing herself close, Belle tilted her head back in request of a kiss.

He put his arms around her in return, catching his fingers together in the small of her back, and bowed his head to meet her. She filled his arms with her warmth. Rummond breathed her in, the rosy scent of her restoring in the airing mustiness of the house. 

“Good morning,” he said, brushing his nose against hers before stealing another kiss.

“Good morning to you.” Belle tightened her embrace until he made a low sound that gave her a shiver. “What, precisely, were you doing up there?”

“Having a closer look at conditions.”

“Carpenters exist for just that manner of thing, you know.”

“I’m not certain about those cornices…” he replied in weak defense.

She shook her head. “You can’t fix up the entire house by yourself.”

“I know,” he admitted. One of his hands began stroking idly up and down her back. “I wanted to do a bit here and there, though. I wanted my hands on _some_ of it.”

“Have you hired anyone to help with it yet?” she asked.

Rummond looked up, then down the wall, finding a wire loosened from its brackets. “I’ll get some names, call around this afternoon.

“That would be an excellent idea,” Belle told him approvingly. “Where is Neal?”

“Where do you think? Out in the back garden. Here,” he said, pulling back when she let go. He took her hand, reaching for his cane where it hung by the handle on the ladder, and brought her over to the great bay window at the back of the room.

Belle rested a knee on the bare wooden platform below the window, leaning to look out. She found Neal crouched low to the ground. He seemed to be looking for - or possibly had already found - something in the undergrowth.

“So, he approves?” she ventured. “Aside from the lack of lizards.”

The rich rumble of Rummond’s chuckle came from over her shoulder. “And how. He made a round through the house, gave his approval of the rest, and he’s been fiddling around out there ever since. I’ve been keeping an eye on him. Never know what might be in an unkempt garden.”

Belle wanted to tap at the glass and greet Neal, but he looked so happy that she resisted. She could go out and see him in a while; it was enough to see him there and content for just now.

“Has Mr. Dove arrived?” she asked, turning to sit down. “You mentioned he might have a look at things on his day off.”

Rummond gave her a nod. “He’s out making certain everything in the staff quarters is in good shape.”

She grinned up at him and patted the bare wood next to her. “Shall I take that to mean you’ve broached the subject of hiring him away from the family he’s with now?”

“I have.” He sat, placing himself close enough to rest his thigh against hers. “He’s very amenable to the idea.”

“Good.” Belle gave a satisfied wiggle. It would be wonderful to have someone known and so trusted with them.

“You look lovely.” Rummond bumped her leg with his. 

She blew a short breath through her teeth. “You’re trying to distract me from the fact I found you six feet off the floor.”

“Not at all.” A slow smirk pulled at one side of his mouth. “A little, perhaps. You still look lovely. I noticed as soon as I saw you come in and was only derailed from saying so by the request that I get my feet on the floor forthwith.”

Belle laughed, leaning her shoulder against him. “I couldn’t very well have caught you if you’d fallen, now could I?”

She brushed her hands a bit self-consciously over the legs of her trousers, though. She’d worn them because she’d the intention to help in whatever he might be doing. 

“You like them?” she asked, and though she wouldn’t admit it, she had wondered whether he might remark on them one way or another as she’d put them on.

“Oh, aye,” he said, a sparkle in his eyes. “They do lovely things there behind you.”

She stood and turned her back to him, then twisted a bit in an attempt to look. “You don’t think they’re unladylike? Mrs. Potts very nearly didn’t let me leave the house.”

“They’re very becoming.” Rummond’s gaze lingered at the way the belt snugged in at her waist, the way the pleats hugged across her hips. He had a bit of a stare at how the deep blue fabric accentuated the curve of her bottom before falling wide and soft down her legs. He repeated distractedly, “Very becoming. In my opinion.”

“Well, there go all of my doubts about them.” She gave him a pleased look and looped her arms around his neck, placing herself carefully in his lap.

He curled one arm around her and rested the other across her own lap. “You always look lovely.”

“You’ll forgive me if I think you’re more than a little biased in my favor.”

“Oh, no, I most definitely am that,” he readily agreed.

Rummond reached up, finding a distraction in the bright blue stitchwork around the square neck of her white blouse. His fingertips indulged in the texture of the flowers.

Knowing the thoughtful look to his face and how his fingers attempted to satisfy their need to fidget without obviously doing so, Belle said softly, “What is it?”

He was quiet for a moment longer before asking, “You do like the house? Inside and outside?”

“I love it,” she said, dropping a kiss at the corner of his mouth. “Every bit. It’s perfect. Or it will be once we’ve done the bit of fixing up it needs and fill it with our own things.”

Rummond turned his face up to her. “I want you to feel at home here.”

“Home comes to me with you and Neal.” She leaned into him, giving him her weight. “You needn’t worry about that part.”

He looked at her as though she’d just hung the moon. His smile returned, soft and affectionate, and she ran her hand down the back of his hair. “We’ve a short way to go before it comes to choosing wallpaper and such,” he said, looking up at the rather faded and well past fashionable design on the walls.

“Mm, I see that. I noticed the signs of neglect as I was looking for you.”

He made a sound of agreement. “The previous owner had been a bit slim in a financial sort of way for a good decade before passing. It was the bank that sold it. No one to inherit, apparently. The furniture was sold off separately to pay debts.”

“It looks like nothing that can’t be easily repaired,” she said, her eyes remaining on him.

“Oh, aye, easily. Wiring and plumbing have been added on. They’re in good shape, if in need of a little looking after,” he assured her, the enthusiasm she’d walked in on coming back to him. “There’s no telephone as yet, but I mean to have a line to run for it as soon as I can. I know we can’t do without one.”

“You’re excited about it.” She enjoying seeing him this way. She enjoyed seeing him find _joy_ in things again.

He shrugged a shoulder, giving them both a playful jostle. “I am.”

“So am I,” she told him. “I’ve never done anything like this - choosing furniture and decor, deciding what everything will look like. My office is the closest I’ve ever gotten to it, but still, moving a Chesterfield and a carpet is a world apart from decorating a house top to bottom.”

Rummond studied her for a moment. “If you’d rather not- if- if it isn’t something you-”

“I want to!” she said quickly. “I want to help and to choose things with you. I want this to be ours.”

Belle marveled a bit. The feeling of _wanting_ to be involved in such preparations was new to her. When she’d been engaged to Donat, there was nothing to do as far as where she would live. It was a given that she would simply move to the Gaston estate. She hadn’t cared about the wedding plans. Donat and her father had seen to that, and neither had asked her opinion on much of it.

Right from the beginning, though, everything had been startlingly different with Rummond. The way she felt about him, for one thing. And then there was the way he felt toward her. Both had been more than a little flooring to understand after what she’d experienced before him. He not only took her needs and wants into account, but he _encouraged_ her toward the things she dreamed of doing. It was odd, the tremendous difference that made. She looked forward to poring over sample books and Saturdays of going into London to visit furniture shops. _With_ him. More surprisingly, she found herself anticipating the time to start planning their wedding.

“For a start,” she began, “there are copper ceiling tiles in the sitting room. They need a good scrub, but don’t get rid of them?”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” he said, wrapping his arms tight about her waist. “What else?”

Belle grinned. If she made a list of things to do and not to do, she had no doubt he’d look after it. She didn’t want such unilateral decisions, though. “I’ll have a look at the rest, but that’s the only ceiling I’ve grown attached to just now.”

His arms loosened and he gave her hip a pat. “Let’s have a tour, then? There are a few more ceilings around here somewhere.”

“More than a few, I hope.” She dropped a kiss on his lips and moved from his lap. “Where to first?”

“There’s the en suite,” he told her as he took his cane to stand. “It’s rather nice for a privy.”

Belle reached for his hand, going across the room with him. There were two doors, both closed. “This one?” she asked, approaching the lefthand door. 

“That’s the one,” he said. He let her step inside first and followed close behind.

It _was_ rather nice. The washroom was at least as spacious as her own, and though the fixtures were a tad dated, they seemed unharmed by time. She looked at the small mirror that hung over the sink. Its silver backing had blackened in a ring around the inside of the frame. They would need a wider mirror, anyway, and it was an easy replacement.

He stood next to her, out of the mirror’s reflection. “You mentioned wanting a larger washroom. Is this right?”

“It’s just right.” She turned to him again, smiling over the fact that he’d remembered. “There’s even space enough for a small linen cupboard at the head of the bathtub.”

“I’m glad it passes muster.” He took a step back toward the door when she moved to leave, going back into the bedroom ahead of her. 

“I saw something interesting when Horatio dropped me off,” Belle said, pulling the washroom door closed behind her. “The Humber outside, I assume it’s yours?”

“It is,” he confirmed with a smile. “Never had one of my own. But I thought, since Neal and I have been doing a good bit of to and fro, it’d be handier than hiring a car every time we need to go farther than the shops up the street.”

Rummond figured he may as well invest in a motor car of his own. _Their_ own. He’d needed to hire one nearly every day since he had left the hospital. It only made good sense, and he supposed it would cost less in the long run. He felt safer, as well, having the car just outside in the event that he needed it.

“Well, it’s very nice,” Belle told him. “I wouldn’t mind a drive around in it sometime.”

“Anytime you like. Consider it yours, as well.” As far as he was concerned, everything that was his was hers. It seemed a good idea to say so, though. “There’s a carriage house out back of the property that’ll serve nicely for its shelter and care, should the need arise.”

“That will prove convenient, I’m certain. Particularly when winter sets in again.”

“I, ah- I might have also bought it in large part so that you can go back and forth more easily when you begin at the medical college.”

“Rum,” she said in such a tone that he looked up at her. The expression on her face was so fond that it gave his stomach a flip. “Thank you.”

He made a dismissive gesture, then reached up to cup a gentle hand against her opposite cheek, pressing a kiss to her temple. “You deserve a way of your own to travel.”

With a soft clearing of her throat, Belle asked, “And where does this one lead?” as she turned the other door handle. She touched her trouser pocket and stepped inside, looking around the simple, empty room.

“That’s…” Rummond remained in the doorway. She turned when she realized he hadn’t come along. There was a bit of apprehension present in his posture as he said, “Would it do for a nursery?”

She didn’t tell him that it was likely meant to be a private drawing room, or that the nursery was likely one of the rooms a good bit farther away from the master bedroom. Having seen how he was with Neal, she couldn’t imagine either of them being so far removed from smaller child.

“It would do perfectly,” she told him. She walked back to him, taking his hand to bring him into the room. “Though, the walls are hideous.”

He laughed, and she wasn’t certain whether it was in relief or agreement. “I’ll find a few books of new wallpaper samples. The entire house will benefit from it.”

“Something sweet for the nursery. What do you think?” she asked him.

There was a quiet moment before he gave her a teasing, “Blue?”

Belle rolled her eyes, dropping her arms to her sides in feigned exasperation. “I’ll never wear anything blue again, not as long as I live.”

“Oh, now,” he said, catching her hand again. “You know how lovely blue is on you.”

“I was thinking yellow.” She grinned and tugged at his hand. “Some pattern in a soft, pretty yellow?”

“That does sound ideal.” Rummond lifted her hand, brushing a kiss over her knuckles.

Belle tucked herself against his side, glad when he put his arm around her. “I miss you and Neal.”

“You see us every day, love,” he said, and she felt him lean his cheek to touch her head.

“Oh, you know what I mean.”

“I do,” he told her, snugging her closer. “And we miss you. Neal remarks on it once a day. At minimum.”

She sighed, making up her mind to enjoy being together with them while she could. Saturdays had turned into the holy grail of her week. “I’m looking so forward to the three of us moving in here, I can hardly stand it.”

“Separate houses do wear thin,” he said, his feelings on it just the same.

“Particularly when I’d gotten so accustomed to seeing you all day and going home to see Neal all evening.” She tilted her head to look up at him, and he moved his own so that he could see her, as well. “At least I get you at lunchtime and both of you at dinner. That makes it a _little_ better.”

“I know it’s the best part of my day.” Rummond smiled down at her. “And Neal would tell you the same.”

Nice as it was to be the best part of someone’s day, she thought it would be better still to have more of said day to spend with them. “Our house here, it’s halfway there, isn’t it? The other half is getting married.”

“That would be the assumption I’m working from.” Rummond reached up, tucking a wisp of hair behind her ear. “It’ll take a few months to get the house ready, top to bottom.”

Belle made a short noise of disgust. “Why can’t we wave a hand and have it ready tomorrow?”

He chuckled, squeezing her. “Because, try as I might, hand-waving hasn’t replaced those ugly cornices in the bedroom.”

“If there must be more climbing up ladders, you have someone else do it,” she reminded him. “Saving money on repairs and whatnot is not worth a broken leg or arm or-”

“I promise. That’ll be my last ladder,” he said, cutting in before she could set off at too hard a pace. “Am I allowed stairs?”

Belle narrowed her eyes at his cheeky response. “As long as there’s a banister.”

She pulled away from him to go back into the bedroom that would be theirs, glancing over her shoulder with a tart little look as she went. Neal still played in the garden when she had a look out the window. He’d found something small and crawling, and he sat in the grass with it held in his hand. 

“Where to now?” She turned to Rummond where he looked out over her shoulder. “There’s a great deal more house to tour.”

“Which rooms did you see when you came in?”

“The sitting room with the copper ceiling tiles. The first I saw was a parlor, and I had a look into the dining room.”

“You didn’t get as far as the kitchen?” he asked. “We’ll start from the end there and make our way back. You can brag to Mrs. Potts’ over that kitchen.”

“It’s that nice?” She followed him into the hallway and fell into step beside him.

“The woodwork is beautiful. Whoever originally had it done had a fine eye. Every cupboard door is ornate. There’s a cabinet built into the middle a bit like yours, but the carving extends to its sides and legs,” he explained, his free hand moving before them as though he could show her by gesture alone.

“Mrs. Potts might fight you for it, after all, if it’s that pretty.”

“I found an empty shop building in town,” Rummond said as they met the turn in the hallway. “I’m thinking of putting my name in. It’s in a good position, I believe. Between a milliner and the grocer.”

“You should!”

“Don’t you want to know what I plan on doing with it?”

“Well, I do have a good idea what you intend,” she told him with a grin. “And I know that if you want it, you should have it. You encourage all I want to do, and I intend to encourage you right back.”

Belle’s hand drifted to her pocket again, and she decided that there was no better time to tell him. She stopped when they reached the entryway and took the folded letter from her pocket, holding it out to him without a word.

“What is this?” he asked, taking the offered paper. He opened it, only reading the first few lines before the curious crease in his brow cleared. He looked up at her with a bright smile. “You’ve been accepted. Belle!”

She nodded quickly, beaming at him. “It came this morning.”

Rummond dropped his cane and grabbed her, wrapping his arms around her and lifting her off her feet. He gave them a half turn, shouting in celebration and bringing a giggle from her. 

“Rum, you’ll hurt your leg!”

“You didn’t tell me you’d already applied!”

“I didn’t want to get my hopes up too high,” she said as he set her back on her feet. “If I didn’t tell anyone, I thought it wouldn’t be _so_ awful if I were the only one who knew I’d been turned down.”

“Turned down?” He scoffed, looking at the letter again. “No one with half a brain in their head would have turned you down.”

She couldn’t help feeling a little proud that he thought so much of her. “Would that I’d had that much confidence over the last few weeks. It would have saved my stomach all the nervous knots.”

“When does the semester begin?” Rummond asked as he leaned to retrieve his cane.

Belle shook her head. “I’m not going immediately. There’s more I want to do with the hospital. I want to make certain it’s in good shape, and that the good shape it’s in will last before I leave.” She took the letter when he handed it back, folding it again and tucking it away. “There are too many people in need of its help to simply leave it in the condition it’s been put in.”

“By a certain nameless person?” he ventured. It wasn’t much of a leap.

“Oh, I could name her.” She pulled a sour face, then smiled up at him again. “I just want it to be in a shape to help all the people it can.”

“No one could fault you for that.” He was fairly certain that he was aware of only around half of the problems that had fallen into her lap when she took the head nurse’s position. It didn’t surprise him that there were still corrections to be made. “Will the college keep a place for you?”

“The dean says they will.” Belle looped her arm through his, and they continued on. “I called after I opened the letter and spoke with her about my situation, told her it might be a year or more before I can attend. She said they’d be ready for me when I’m ready for them.”

Rummond nodded as though the dean’s response was the only acceptable one to be had. “She knows what a brilliant student they’re getting and how fortunate they are to get you.”

Belle fussed happily over the kitchen, finding it large enough to place a table and chairs at one end. The butler’s pantry that sat between it and the dining room was prettily constructed, as well. The laundry room and larder, both off the kitchen and of a nice size for their respective tasks, were nondescript in their state of emptiness. She’d gotten a fair look at the dining room already, and her opinion didn’t change overmuch. It had a lovely pair of wide windows, but there was an awful chandelier that needed a desperate replacing.

“The house is bigger than I expected from simply looking at the outside,” she observed as they made their way back through.

“Mm,” he replied, and he went quiet for a full room and a half.

Belle gave him a careful bump. “What?” 

“I worried about living in such a big house again,” he said, looking sidelong to Belle. “I’ve not lived in anything with so much space in… near on thirty years. I realize it isn’t nearly as enormous, but I worried it would feel like living in my father’s house again.”

She slipped her hand into his, lacing their fingers together. “Does it feel all right? Does it still worry you?”

“My father’s house felt cold. Empty of anything important. Malevolent as soon as you set foot over the threshold,” he confided. His head shook slowly for a second before he looked at her properly. “This house doesn’t feel like that.”

“How does this one feel, then?” she asked, squeezing his hand and drawing it close. She held it against her ribcage.

“Warm. Familiar.” Rummond stopped in the parlor door, and he took a deep, easy breath. “Safe?”

She smiled up at him. “It does feel safe.” 

“I have something to show you,” he said, veering left when they made their way back to the entryway once again. He took her into the hallway that lay straight down from the entrance. Opening a door, he invited her in with a flourish of a gesture.

Belle walked into a large, empty room that was a bit tatty, just as the rest of the rooms were. There was nothing to hint at its reason - all it could boast were a pair of windows that looked out onto the back garden. She drifted toward them, taking Rummond with her. 

“I haven’t gotten to this room yet. Not as far as poking at what needs repairing. I will, though,” he promised. He let go of her hand and went over to the set of double doors directly across from the one they’d come in through, pushing them open. “It leads into the master bedroom, you see?”

“What is it to be?” she asked, walking into the middle of the room and imagining. “Another parlor? A study?”

“I knew what it had to be as soon as I saw it.” Rummond’s hand twisted a little on the handle of his cane and he rubbed the toe of his shoe over a streak of dust on the floor. “Library?”

Belle spun to face him, a look of thrilled wonder on her face. She hoped that he could interpret how she felt about his suggestion, because she couldn’t form a single word at present.

“I was thinking, after we get the room cleaned up and repaired, I’d hire a carpenter to come in and install shelves all around.” He laughed with delight at her reaction. “What do you think? Good idea?” 

She hurried over to him, throwing her arms around his neck. “Best idea!” 

“Tall shelves,” Rummond went on. “Of course, then it’ll need a library ladder and rails.”

Belle made a happy sound into his shoulder. “Careful, you might never get me out of here,” she warned.

“That’s just fine. It’s big enough for a bed,” he teased, pointing to one side of the room. “We’ll leave space just there for one.”

“All right, a library bed is a bit far.” She hummed, leaning back and resting her hands against his chest. “Besides, I have every intention of making frequent use of _our_ bed.”

His smile turned a bit bashful. “Do you, now?”

 _“Every_ intention,” Belle informed him, giving him a warm look. “You might have to nap while I’m at work to get any sleep.”

Rummond went a shade pink about the ears, and he was the one struck rather speechless this time.

She slid her hands farther apart, curling her fingers into the snug arms of his waistcoat. She’d begun to raise up onto her toes for a kiss when the door at the end of the hallway slammed shut.

“Belle!” Neal called as he ran full tilt into the room. He slowed just enough that he didn’t collide with them, hardly stopping before he began prying his way between them until he could look up and see her. “Hi! I saw you and Papa in the window, how long have you been here?” he rattled off breathlessly.

“I’ve been here for a little while.” Belle left her hands where they were, as Neal appeared to be enjoying his wedged position, and she noticed that Rummond didn’t move his arm from around her. “I saw you playing in the garden, and I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Neal’s mouth pulled to one side in disappointment. “I was looking for lizards, but there’s not any. Just bugs. Papa said you might let me move some here from your house.”

“You can move as many lizards as you like, darling,” she told him. “I believe Mrs. Potts might even let you have a box to move them in.”

“Ooh, I could fit lots more in a box than a jar,” Neal said, impressed by the idea. He pressed his lips together thoughtfully before asking, “Is it lunchtime yet?”

Rummond clucked his tongue. “You had enough breakfast to founder a horse!”

“I thought we might go back to that little restaurant in town for lunch,” Belle suggested. “When lunchtime arrives in a couple of hours.”

“Hours?” Neal treated them to a loud and longsuffering sigh before wriggling away. 

Belle turned her face up to Rummond. She slipped her fingers from his waistcoat and took half a step back. “Has he chosen his bedroom?”

“I want it to be close to Papa’s,” Neal declared before his father could answer.

“Not yet,” Rummond said. “He raced through the house and into the garden before we could discuss which he’d like.

“Well, that’s your Papa’s room there,” she told Neal, pointing to the doors leading into it.

“And there are two more bedrooms off the long hallway,” his father added. “Both nearby enough.”

“I looked all around,” Neal said as he trotted off through the doors. “There’s lots of rooms up the stairs, too.”

“I plan to have a look up there, myself, a bit later. But just now, what do you say we go and choose a bedroom for you?” Belle patted one hand against Rummond’s chest before she went after Neal, holding a hand out to him.

He reached up, taking her hand. “We have to make sure I can find this room from there. Just in case.”

“We’ll make sure,” Belle said, smiling back at Rummond, who followed them. “We’ll be right where you can find us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visual aids:  
> [Humber 15 motor car](https://68.media.tumblr.com/86a8fe9ac04641a714620d929791e390/tumblr_ou7g9bpLOz1sn4l8ho2_540.jpg)  
> [Floof family house](https://68.media.tumblr.com/9a5b1f799644b71fa4e85005f50a0ff0/tumblr_ou7g9bpLOz1sn4l8ho1_1280.jpg)  
> [house plans, downstairs](https://68.media.tumblr.com/f239f89c6c0746914ca82aae17640bdd/tumblr_ou7g9bpLOz1sn4l8ho3_r3_1280.png)  
> [house plans, upstairs](https://68.media.tumblr.com/a173f375c09d0d419029a7437c4ab505/tumblr_ou7g9bpLOz1sn4l8ho4_r2_1280.png)  
> [my tumblr post with more information](http://ishtarelisheba.tumblr.com/post/164077113169/btftb-rummond-and-belles-house-the-floof-family)


	149. Perched in the Soul

“Thank you,” Rummond said, standing to meet Mrs. Lapointe and Neal as she brought him out into the foyer.

He’d spoken to his son’s teacher upon dropping him off earlier in the morning, waiting until Neal had gone into the classroom. It was to be a surprise, he’d told her, taking Neal out of class early, and it wouldn’t become a habit. He had briefly explained his plans, and Ms. Lapointe had understood completely. Neal could leave any time after nine, she’d allowed, as her class had a spelling test at half past eight. Rummond had simply taken up a station on a curl-armed bench in the school foyer, waiting until Neal had finished. He had his notepad and pencil and a good many thoughts about the house’s interior. If his time in the hospital had taught him any practicality, it was the ability to fend off the boredom of waiting.

“I’ve marked his books for the work we’ll be doing the rest of the day,” Mrs. Lapointe told him. “I believe he’s doing well enough to handle these particular lessons on his own, perhaps with a bit of help. He’s to make a drawing that incorporates all three species of bat we learned about last week, as well.”

“We’ll finish the rest tonight,” Rummond assured her. He looked to his son. “Won’t we?”

Neal nodded, giving his teacher a charming little smile. “Yes, ma’am. We’ll finish.”

“Good day, Captain Gold. Good day, Neal,” she wished them, reaching to bounce her fingertip off the end of Neal’s nose. 

Rummond nodded in response to her farewell. “Good day, Mrs. Lapointe.”

“Where are we going?” Neal asked as they made their way down the walk. “Why did you come get me early?”

“Well,” Rummond said, opening the car door. “We have a couple of important errands today. We’ll be stopping by Belle’s house, first.”

Neal climbed in, crawling across to the passenger side of the seat. “What errands? What for?”

“The errands, you’ll see. As for Belle’s house, I’ve something to ask Mrs. Potts. It’ll take only a few moments.” Rummond got in, pulling the door shut and stowing his cane between it and his seat before starting the car and setting off.

“And then what?”

“And then we’ll be making a trip into London. A quick one.”

His son gave him what he could only feel was a look of suspicion before asking, “Why are we going to London?”

He simply shrugged and cast a quick glance at Neal. “You’ll see.”

Rummond asked for Mrs. Potts when they arrived, and they waited for her just inside the parlor. She came in with a questioning expression, drying her hands on her apron before holding her arms open for Neal. He granted her a hug, just as he did every time he saw her.

“I’ll get twice the hugs today, won’t I?” She squeezed Neal tightly, giving his cheeks a press between her hands once she’d released him. Straightening up, she looked to Rummond. “Captain, I hear you’ve a particular need to speak with me.”

Half the time, he somehow managed to feel like a boy, himself, in Mrs. Potts’ presence. This morning was one of those occasions. “I’ve a small favor to ask.”

“Oh?” Her gray eyebrows rose.

He swallowed, wondering what she might say and knowing at the same time how important her opinion was to Belle. “Do you think you might be able to find me a ring of Belle’s, something that fits her ring finger?”

Her brows fell back into their proper place in the same instant that her eyes went wide. “Oh!” she exclaimed, her face breaking into a smile. “I most certainly can. I can do that right now.”

With a gasp that was well past dramatic, Neal shouted, “You’re giving Belle a ring!” 

Mrs. Potts practically glowed as she bustled from the room to go and fetch what Rummond had asked for.

“Aye, that’d be what we’re going into London for,” he told his son.

Neal hopped at his father’s side in excitement. “Going to buy a ring, going to buy a ring,” he sang, grabbing the hand his father held onto the cane with to use both as leverage to hop higher.

Resting his free hand on Neal’s head, Rummond tilted his son’s face up to look at him. “Shh,” he shushed, though a grin did its best to tug at his mouth.

“Going to buy a ring,” Neal continued to sing at a whisper.

Rummond snorted, too tickled now to hold it back. “Just as soon as Mrs. Potts brings me something to compare the size to.”

She returned with the swishing of skirts and held her hand out to him. In her palm lay a silver ring set with a trio of small, rectangular amethysts. “This one fits her ring finger just perfectly,” she said with a firm nod.

Rummond took the slender bit of metal and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket. “I’ll have it back to you before she misses it, ideally.”

“You find her something nice. She doesn’t like gaudy,” Mrs. Potts counselled. “But you’d know that, of course.”

Rummond smiled, accepting her advice in the spirit that it was provided despite feeling as though he had a reasonable grasp of the sort of jewelry Belle enjoyed. “I have some ideas.”

“Are you hungry? I’ve fresh chicken salad and I can easily throw together a batch of biscuits.” She enticed them with a look that said she knew they were both tempted to accept.

“No, no, we should be going. We’ve only so much time for our outing before lunch, and we had a full breakfast,” he said, reminding Neal of it as his son turned a pleading look on him.

“All right, then.” Mrs. Potts reached out, giving his hand a pat, and leaned down to gather Neal in for one more hug. “You boys enjoy yourselves,” she said, and she pressed a kiss to Neal’s cheek. “I’ll see you at dinner, hm?”

“You will.” Rummond held his hand out and Neal placed his in it. “Thank you for finding that ring.”

The hour’s drive out to London was filled with mostly one-sided chatter. Neal talked about the rings he’d noticed, telling his father about Nurse Lucas’, as well as Nurse Boyd’s and Nurse Nolan’s. He asked why Nurse Jezek didn’t have one, and Rummond explained that not _every_ woman received or even wanted an engagement ring.

“But Belle will get one!” Neal said, wiggling.

Rummond nodded. “In quite short order, aye, she will.”

His son made a sound of delight before plopping back against the car seat. “What kind of ring will you give her?” Neal asked, and he was off again.

The jewelry shop had a card in the window when they arrived, declaring that the proprietor was out and would return soon. Neal stepped back until he could read it. He gave his father a distressed look. “Papa?”

“Worry you not, we’ll come back and they’ll be open,” Rummond reassured him. “I’ve an idea. Why don’t we go and fetch something to take for lunch while we wait?”

Neal gave the door a perturbed look. “We’ll come back?”

“As soon as they’ve opened.” Rummond took his watch from his waistcoat pocket, careful that he didn’t pull Belle’s little silver ring out with it. They had a good fifteen minutes before the shop would re-open. He replaced his pocketwatch and pointed down the way a bit. “There’s a bakery just down there. Let’s go and see what they have.”

“Food for lunch,” Neal said by way of agreement, reaching for his Papa’s hand.

Three shops ahead, the bakery was, and they arrived just fine in spite of the foot traffic. Rummond concentrated on the aim of getting there. He’d found a benefit of the cane in the outside world; people tended to step easily and automatically aside from his way rather than ploughing right through. 

He gave Neal the job of choosing something sweet from behind the glass while he chose from the day’s specials. They ended up with a fair number of chicken and pork pies, golden and prettily decorated with shapes cut from crust, and a loaf of milk bread. Neal chose a small lemon curd cake with strawberry jam dotted over top. The girl at the counter - the baker’s daughter, Rummond discovered through her brief and amused chat with his son - loaded their order into a beer box, arranging it all so that no one thing could crush another. He paid and pulled the box to the edge of the counter so that he could carry it under his arm, pinned securely against his side. 

“Stay close, now,” he told Neal, as he couldn’t hold the boy’s hand and carry their lunch at the same time. His son grabbed onto the corner of his jacket, holding to it while they made their way back down the sidewalk.

On a lark, he stopped in at Sainsbury’s for root beers, deciding that he neither wanted to show up without drinks nor fiddle with preparing a flask of lemonade in the short time they’d have. He bought three and tucked them into the side of the box with their food. They took the food back to the car where he’d parked just outside of the jeweler’s, setting the box on the floor in the back seat so that it wouldn’t spill on the drive home. 

By the time they’d done at the grocer’s, the shop was open. Neal saw first, and he was six paces inside the jewelry shop before his father followed.

Rummond did his best to seem normal and personable as he walked through the shop, trying to look as though he knew what he meant to do. Nowhere public was particularly comfortable. It was worse in such places as this, where wealth was expected and assumed. There were few people in the jewelry shop, at least - only an older woman looking at necklaces, being served by the owner, and a clerk at the other counter.

He guided Neal away from a glass case of signet and mother’s rings, steering him to the opposite side, where he intended to ask quietly about rings of a certain sort. His son, however, also got _there_ ahead of him.

“My Papa is looking for a ring!” Neal declared to the immaculately dressed clerk. He looked back over his shoulder, beaming at his father.

“Ah, is that right?” The man looked from Neal to Rummond with a lofty expression.

“An engagement ring,” Rummond said. “Something fine, though not ostentatious. Fit for a small hand and a good deal of activity.” He took the amethyst ring from his pocket, showing it to the clerk. “This would be the size.”

The gentleman nodded, giving the ring a close look before handing it back. He bent to unlock the case of engagement rings to one side. “I believe I have a number of possibilities.”

He brought out two displays from the case, setting them side by side on the counter, and spread a velvet cloth out in front of them. The display to the left was a good starting point, but the one to the right seemed like a meager offering, populated with weak gold and small, lackluster stones. The clerk was assuming something about him, and that made him bristle.

It brought a bitter taste to Rummond’s mouth, but he gestured to the obviously cheaper rings and said, “We can do better than this, can’t we? Assume I’ve money to burn.”

The man raised an eyebrow. He considered both displays he’d brought out, then replaced them with a pair filled with brighter, far prettier rings that glimmered with refracting light. 

“Better, sir?” the clerk asked.

He gave a quick nod, catching the handle of his cane on the counter’s edge. “Much.” 

Rummond leaned over the displays, giving his son room to peer over the edge of the counter at them. He pulled a few from the velvet cushions, setting them on the cloth. Neal tugged at his jacket and pointed to a couple of his own suggestions. Rummond set them out, as well. The clerk’s attitude improved by a great leap as he began praising choices here and there.

“And this one, Papa,” Neal said, pointing out a ring that was in truth too large. His father set it beside the rest anyway.

“Let’s have a look at these,” Rummond told him. “What do you think? Do any of these look right?”

Neal gave them a hard, thoughtful look. “Some,” he said.

Rummond set a hand at the back of the boy’s shoulder. “Which do you think Belle would absolutely not like?”

With another long look and a drawn out hum, Neal pointed to a ring set with a large diamond and gems encircling the band. “Too many?”

“I believe you’re right. She wouldn’t care for quite so much flash, would she?” Rummond set the ring back into the cushion. He took another, with a rectangular diamond and flanking emeralds, and put it back, as well. “That isn’t quite it, either.”

They considered the rings carefully. Neal shook his head at some along with his father, looking thoughtfully at others. Some were large but far too simple; some were just too ornate - neither extremity being fitting. The clerk didn’t seem to know what to to think, and after a while, his observations went silent and he simply remained attentive. They were eventually left with five to choose from.

The first Neal had chosen remained. It was a gold band with a rectangular silver shield, set with six smaller diamonds surrounding a large center stone. Though it was pretty enough on its own merits, Rummond knew that it wasn’t right. The shape was too large for Belle’s hand, and he’d never seen her wear anything of a similar style. One that Rummond had considered - a great teardrop of a diamond outlined in sapphires - quickly fell out of his favor for similar reasons. 

They’d narrowed it down to three, and it took a bit of hemming and hawing over the last of them to come to a final decision. There was a heavy, round diamond set in bright gold that Neal selected from the display. Eight smaller diamonds ringed it, and another eight were set in a pair of squares to either side. There was no denying its beauty, but it didn’t feel right. Rummond gave closer examination to a platinum, square cut diamond ring with a number of smaller stones extending halfway around the band. The effect made the ring appear almost serpentine. While it was also beautiful, it didn’t look at all like Belle. It reminded him more of the other engagement ring he’d seen on her finger, and that sealed his feelings about that.

“This one,” Rummond said, resting his fingertip on the velvet cloth. He looked to his son.

Neal rested his chin on the edge of the counter, pulling himself taller so that he could get a proper look. The last ring was a little more delicate than the rest. It was made of rose gold - one of very few rose gold pieces in the shop. The setting held a nicely sized round diamond ringed by a dozen smaller, each in its own petal-shaped setting. Another pair were set to each side, in tiny filigrees that pointed at one end and curlicued at the other. 

The boy gave an awkward wiggle of his head where he’d propped it. He dropped his heels back to the floor. “I like that one.”

“I can imagine it on Belle’s hand. Hm?”

“So can I,” Neal said approvingly.

“Will you be purchasing wedding rings today, as well?” the clerk asked.

“Soon, but not today.” Rummond pulled his wallet from the inner pocket of his jacket and slipped a check from behind the notes. Tucking his wallet away again, he lay the piece of paper flat on the countertop next to the displays, and he gave the clerk an expectant look. “Would you mind if I borrowed a pen?”

He left the store with the ring box weighing in his pocket and his son chattering happily at his side once more. He intended to wait until the next evening, until he could cement in his thoughts what he wanted to say. Rummond had decided to invite Belle to the flat for dinner, for once, and prepare a meal for the three of them. 

Neal waited an admirable fifteen minutes down the road before setting in on his father.

“Can we go now?” he asked, patting at his Papa’s jacket sleeve.

“We’re on our way home,” Rummond said.

Neal shook his head at his Papa’s misunderstanding. _“No,_ are you going to give Belle her ring now?”

Rummond gave his son a glance before returning his eyes to the road. “Now? No, I-”

“But why not?”

“I mean to give Belle her ring tomorrow evening at dinner.”

Neal scooted closer to his Papa on the seat. “You could give it to her today at lunch,” he said, deciding that was a fair compromise.

Rummond distracted his son with a game of spotting all the motor cars with more than one person inside. It gave him time to think.

They neared their own neighborhood, passing the hospital on their way back to the flat. There was still an hour before Belle would be free for lunch, and Rummond thought he might keep the pies warm in the oven until then. 

Neal perked up, realizing where they were. “Are we going now?”

“Well…”

“Let’s go now! Give Belle her ring now!” He bounced on the seat.

“Neal, duckling, I hadn’t meant to ask today.”

“But why not?” Neal asked in innocent bewilderment. “Why can’t it be _now?”_

Rummond stopped himself with the excuse of dinner poised on his tongue. Why _couldn’t_ he ask Belle right now? There were excuses and delays he could make, of course, but none of them good ones. Why wait until she could come over to the flat when he could ask in the place they’d met?

He stopped, was honked at by no less than two other cars, and turned in the middle of the street. 

“Papa?” Neal’s head whipped around as he looked. “Where are we going?”

Rummond smiled over at his son. “First, to get flowers.”

“And then?” The little boy grinned excitedly. 

“To give Belle her ring,” Rummond said, and Neal squealed, flopping back against the car seat.

They stopped at the little flower shop in town in search of roses. The young woman whose shop it was had a few sorts, and he had to stop himself from dwelling on the virtues of each. He came away with an immense bouquet of great red cabbage roses, buying the shop out of them, and had them tied up with a bright blue ribbon.

Rummond managed to get all the way into the hospital drive on the adrenaline of what he was about to do before nerves set in. Flowers in hand and an ecstatic Neal at his side, he patted his pocket to reassure himself that the ring was still there.

“Here,” he said, stopping before they turned the corner into the east corridor. He guided Neal over to the nearest chair. “I want you to sit just here until Belle or I fetch you. All right?”

Neal didn’t look terribly impressed by the idea of not tagging along, but he did as he was told. “Don’t forget me?” he asked as he squirmed onto the chair.

“I couldn’t forget you.” Rummond bent to drop a kiss on top of his son’s head. “It won’t take long.”

It was early, but hoped that Belle might be in her office. As he rounded the corner, however, he found her walking toward him, and he filled with butterflies from throat to navel.

Belle looked at her lapel watch. She’d time to check in on how far along Nurse Hua had gotten with inventory in the north wing. Nurse Hua, bless her, somehow actually enjoyed the organization aspect of it. Belle was more than happy to let her have at it. When she lifted her head again, there was quite the surprise headed right for her. 

“Rummond,” she said with a smile, and she smiled all the broader when she saw the flowers he carried. “I haven’t forgotten an occasion, have I?”

“We’ve turned up a bit early.” He met her where she’d stopped near her office, holding the bouquet out for her. 

She rose up and caught a quick kiss from his lips before burying her nose in the flowers. They smelled so sweet and crisp, and she couldn’t wait for them to fill her office with the scent. She quickly decided to divide them and take half home for her bedroom; there were certainly enough of them for it. She could have stuck her entire face in them if she’d had a mind to.

“They’re beautiful. Thank you,” she said, and she caught the apprehension on his face. “What’s the matter?”

He shook his head. “Can we step into your office?”

“Rum, what’s the matter?” She glanced behind him, wondering where Neal was. He’d said ‘we,’ hadn’t he?

With a gentle hand at the back of her arm, Rummond attempted to encourage her toward her office door. She resisted, turning to face him again. “If there’s something wrong, you tell me right now.”

“It isn’t- there’s nothing wrong,” he said, but that look held his features, and her heart gave a bit of a lurch.

 _“Something_ is going on.” Belle fixed him with a piercing look that didn’t waver.

Rummond gave. He would do this in the corridor, then. His voice went soft as he gave her the only bit of his proposal that he’d worked out. “I loved you before, but I think I began wishing I could marry you ’round about the time you took the stitches out of my hand.”

Relief poured through her, and she smiled brightly up at him - such a big smile that her eyes narrowed and the corners crinkled from its intensity. “I knew when I cornered you for a kiss.”

That brought a smile to his face. “You didn’t _corner_ me.”

“You looked a bit cornered.”

“I was surprised.”

“Same difference.”

“My point was-”

“Yes, what was your point?” She had to restrain herself from bouncing on the balls of her feet, knowing precisely what he was about now. 

“I believe it’s high time for both of us that I do this, then.” Rummond turned his hand on his cane handle so that he could use it for support as he went down on one knee, and he laid the cane on the tile. He brought the small, tan velvet box from his pocket, opening it with a creak of the hinge. “Belle, will-”

“Yes!” she cried before he got the entire question out. Realizing what she’d done, she blushed all the way to the roots of her hair and clapped a hand over her face. “I’m sorry.”

A soundless laugh huffed through his nose and he smiled up at her. 

Belle waved her hand at him in a little spinning motion. “Go back. Finish.”

Rummond’s heart thumped hard, and he felt heat rush behind his eyes. “Will you marry me?”

She nodded, dropping to her knees and into his arms. He held her tightly to him, and she could feel the tension leave him along with his nervous demeanor. As though there had ever been a question of her accepting his proposal. Pulling back, Belle cradled her empty hand against his jaw and kissed him again, taking her time.

“Do you want your ring?” he asked with a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth, and she pressed a kiss there, as well.

“That would be the point, wouldn’t it?” She brought her hand down, leaning away enough that he could slip the ring onto her finger. It was the loveliest she’d ever seen, beating the glitter of Ruby’s by a mile.

Rummond closed the box and tucked it away again. “Does it feel right?”

She looked up to him from her open admiration of the ring he’d chosen for her, smiling so hard that her face ached. Tears she hadn’t realized were brimming ran over and she laughed as she wiped them away. “It’s _perfect._ In every way.”

Belle rested her hand on his shoulder to get to her feet, then held her hand down to help Rummond up, as well. He took it, accepting and taking his cane so that he could get his own feet back under him.

She cast a look down the hallway again, not surprised in the least to find a pair of brown eyes peering around the corner and down the corridor at them. “Come on, then,” she said, beckoning Neal.

He trotted toward them, his smile just as big as his Papa’s and Belle’s. “You can get married now!” he chirped, catching a small hand on the edge of her apron pocket, pulling at it as though he hadn’t already gained her attention. “When will you get married? Soon? Won’t it be soon? And we can all go live in our house!”

Belle sniffled and laughed, and Rummond pulled a handkerchief from his pocket for her. He reached up to touch her cheek once she’d taken it, and she leaned into the warmth.

“We will just as soon as we have the house ready to move into,” she said, her voice still watery.

Rummond ran a hand over his son’s mass of unruly curls. “It takes time to perform repairs and fix a house up and all that, duckling.”

“But _how_ long?” Neal looked up at his Papa and Belle in turn.

“It’ll be a few months more,” his father said. “Not terribly long.”

Neal groaned. “Months? That’s forever!”

Belle handed her flowers back to Rummond so that she could reach down to lift the boy up and set him on her hip. “It won’t seem so long,” she said, though heaven knew it seemed near ‘forever’ to her, as well. “We’ll have an engagement party soon, and there are so many things to think about and do in the meantime. It’ll fly by so quickly!”

He seemed appeased by that. “Can I see?” he asked, patting her arm, and she shifted his weight a bit so that she could show him her hand. “It’s pretty. I helped look for it.”

“You did an excellent job,” she told Neal, sending a grin past him to Rummond. “I couldn’t have asked for a prettier or more fitting ring.”

“We got lunch, too!” he said. “Pies and cake and root beer!”

“Did you? That sounds delicious, but we have a little while before time to eat.” Belle supported him with both arms again when he’d done with looking at her ring. He had grown so in these last months, and while it was a very good thing for him, it did make holding him more of a challenge.

“I should go get that from the car,” Rummond said. He reached out, giving his son’s back a pat.

“It can wait, can’t it?” she asked, gesturing toward her office with a tilt of her head. “I’ll take the pies to warm in the kitchen later. Just now I’d like to hear about what an interesting day the two of you have obviously had.”

He smiled at her insistence that he not leave so soon, even if stepping away were temporary, and he nodded. “I suppose it can wait ’til after.”

“Good. Come on, come in,” Belle urged him, turning to her door with Neal. “I want to enjoy this myself for a while before it’s all over the hospital.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visual aid:  
> [Belle’s engagement ring](http://68.media.tumblr.com/248c3245feac412ce0d15f06806d5550/tumblr_oup7p9oMZk1uvepcao2_1280.png)
> 
> (One more chapter, guys!)


	150. Epilogue - Night Will End and the Sun Will Rise

Belle could still hear Ruby’s squeal upon realizing that Rummond had proposed. She’d decided to let someone figure it out rather than telling, and it just happened to be during the next morning’s briefing that her friend spied the addition to her hand. Belle had held out a stack of updated rosters including a pair of new patients and Ruby went off like a steamship siren. Once Ruby could compose herself enough to say what had brought on such a response, Belle had been a bit mobbed by nurses gathering in for looks of their own. It had taken her a good ten minutes to compose the room enough to complete her briefing.

She and Rummond hadn’t been any manner of secret at all for a good while, but it was a thrill to be able to speak of it so openly. A handful of her nurses had even taken to asking how Rummond was doing after his release, and Ruby still occasionally grabbed her hand to coo about her ring and how happy she was for her. She was certain that Dr. Hopper had been hinting around about a small dinner party, as well.

The engagement party had come together more easily than she’d expected. Her father had been such a reliable patron during the course of her previous party and the debacle that followed that shops were more than happy to work with the date that Belle asked after. It was the end of May that she wanted - evenings that would be pleasantly warm, just a bit shy of six weeks since Rummond proposed. That gave them plenty of time to put the party together and everyone invited sufficient notice to make arrangements to attend.

She’d kept the guest list fairly small. Friends, colleagues from the hospital, a handful of other acquaintances. As few people as she could get away with. She had asked Rummond for suggestions and he’d come up with all of a half dozen people, some of them overlapping with her own list. Her father wanted to add a large number of his own business contacts, and Belle put her foot down. Besides the fact that she knew Rummond would be uncomfortable with such people and so many of them, she didn’t want her engagement party to turn into a way for her father to make professional connections. It was meant to be a celebration - fun and comfortable. Belle wouldn’t allow that to be taken away from Rummond, Neal, _or_ herself. She only wanted people there who were well and truly happy for them.

Despite the party’s rather limited scope, her father had spared no expense. Mrs. Potts had done every inch of the cooking - she would have it no other way - but he’d hired a decorator to look after the rooms that the party would move through and had a florist make arrangements for the entryway and parlor, as well as centerpieces for the dining room. There were final touches to make on the day itself, but near everything had been finished by Thursday evening. Belle had a look around after Rummond and Neal left, before she’d gone up to bed. It was lovely, all decked out in white and blues and purples. The decorator had worked around the florist’s plans. Lumiere had already moved the Victrola in from the sitting room. All it lacked were flowers, and those would be delivered the next afternoon. 

She had to work on the Friday of the party, but Rummond spent the day there with her father and Mrs. Potts, making certain that things were done the way they’d decided upon. While she wasn’t sure whether he would ever move past the habit of relegating his own needs and wants to low priority, he was nowhere near as awkward about stepping in and using his voice when it came to something that she wanted. It only took sussing out his wants and claiming them as her own, she’d discovered. For the present, it was a strategy that worked. 

Belle clocked out early at five, leaving herself a good thirty minutes to get ready once she’d arrived home. She glanced a kiss off Rummond’s cheek and gave Neal’s hair a ruffle that would make Mrs. Potts fuss as she hurried upstairs. Her hair took longer than the rest combined. She pinned it up into a faux bob, anchoring it as securely as she could. After pushing a pair of tortoiseshell and split pearl combs into the rolled curls near her nape, she slipped the necklace that Rummond gave her back on over her head.

Her dress was an imported American gown cribbed from a Parisian design. She’d gotten it a bit last minute the previous Saturday, unable to find something that she was enamored of enough before spotting it in a private boutique that Ruby had suggested, and there was no time to look into sending for an original. She did adore it, though. Most importantly, when she put it on, she didn’t feel as though she were dressing for someone else’s party. 

Belle fiddled with the large, gilded floral brooch at the front that marked a dropped waist not technically in the tailoring. The dress was draped with a thin, blue silk overlay that practically floated as she moved. She felt glorious in it.

Rummond hadn’t yet seen it. She and Mrs. Potts had made the one last attempt at shopping while he’d been waiting at their house for a delivery of carpets and replacement roofing tiles for repairs. She had developed a great enjoyment for hiding dresses from him so that she could savor the expression on his face when he saw her in them for the first time. No one had ever before looked at her the way he did, and that _never_ got old.

He didn’t disappoint. Rummond met her at the bottom of the stairs in his new and very nicely tailored suit with a look of awe that made a giddiness fizz up in her.

“You’re beautiful,” he told her as soon as she reached the bottom stair.

Belle stepped close, and he bowed his head to kiss her. “So are you,” she said, appreciating the bashful flicking away of his eyes. She checked her watch. “Ready to receive our guests?”

He rumbled a short sound and glanced at the front door as though her speaking it might bring someone to knock right away. “Ready as can be, I suppose.”

~o~ ~o~ ~o~ ~o~

She glanced around for Neal. He was still making his way through the small clusters of people in the parlor, chatting happily with everyone who would give him half a chance.

As Mary Margaret had declared Emma far too young to attend and Lieutenant Hargreaves’ daughter was having a sleepover with a school friend, Neal was the only child there. Belle supposed that, if things were done ‘properly,’ Neal shouldn’t have been in attendance, either. She couldn’t imagine leaving him upstairs in the knowledge that the celebration was going on without him, though, not when he was so terribly invested in it all. It would have been cruel to exclude him.

Dinner wasn’t far off, and she needed to step away for a moment before it was announced. She’d needed to for a fair few minutes, but this or that guest caught her attention and she was intercepted before she could make it to the hallway. Thinking that she could dart quickly out after finishing a conversation with Mrs. Lucas, she headed toward the door, only to be called over by Mal and Ms. Wock. She managed to get away by grabbing Graham’s arm as he passed by, quite literally dragging him into the discussion and introducing him to Rummond’s solicitor. Graham beckoned Dr. Hopper over, and amid the recognition and renewed chattering, she had her chance to go.

Belle walked over to Rummond where he talked with David and Lieutenant Hargreaves. She rested her hand on his shoulder, and he leaned enough for her to whisper in his ear.

“I’m going to the washroom. I’ll be right back,” she told him, wanting to give him the reassurance that she would only be stepping out for a moment. She knew how uncertain he was about being in a room with such a group of people and so much noise, and she didn’t wish to make that worse by disappearing suddenly. 

He nodded, giving her a soft and lopsided smile. 

She handed him the crystal cup she’d been sipping punch from. “Hold this for me?”

“Certainly,” he said as he took the drink from her.

Belle gave his shoulder a squeeze. As she walked away, she heard Lieutenant Hargreaves tease, “Sweet nothings from nursie, eh?”

“No message from Belle is ever ‘nothing,’” she heard Rummond reply. She smiled, feeling a happy flutter around her stomach at his remark.

Rummond watched her go before he turned his attention back to the pair of men having a good natured debate over the virtues of something or other to do with the King’s hobby of philately and collecting.

There was a piercing shriek of laughter on the far side of the room from where he stood, and someone gave a cracking clap of their hands. He startled a bit. The muscles across the back of his shoulders pulled with tension, and he felt his senses teetering on the edge of being loaded down with too much. 

He smelled cordite, and beneath it a peculiar tang that he tried to push away from his thoughts. His heart raced, and all at once, the parlor seemed too small and too populated. He shot a glance down at his hands. They were fine, clean, thank God for small favors. But the odors lingered at the edge of his awareness.

“Pardon me,” he said, reaching to set Belle’s punch cup on the mantle.

“All right there?” Lieutenant Hargreaves asked, and Rummond felt a steadying hand briefly touch his upper arm. The boy’s voice sounded as though it came from the far end of a long tunnel. “Need company out?”

“Fine, fine,” Rummond said, waving the Lieutenant off, and he left the room as quickly as he could without drawing attention.

He only needed some fresh air, that was all. A moment away from the party. Fresh air, and he would be all right to return. He got himself down the hallway and to the door leading out to the back garden. The openness and quiet were an immediate relief. 

Rummond sat down on the wrought iron patio bench, loosening his tie a tad. It wasn’t a full-blown panic. He’d caught it before it could spiral so far as that. He breathed and counted, though, letting the routine of it and the cooler air clear his head.

When Belle left the washroom, she found Ruby waiting just outside, a broad, scarlet-lipped smile on her face and something held in her hand.

“I have a present for you,” her friend told her. 

Since it appeared that Ruby wasn’t going right in, Belle pulled the door shut. “Should I be leery?”

“Absolutely not.” Ruby offered her a small, golden compact. “I got some for myself the other day and I decided to make an engagement gift of one for you, too.”

Belle pressed the latch on the front to pop it open. She found rosy pink pressed rouge and a tiny powder puff inside, divided by a sliver of tissue paper. “Thank you?” she said, giving Ruby a questioning look. “Have I been looking pale?”

“For your wedding night, you goose.”

Expression unchanged, Belle shook her head.

Ruby clucked her tongue. “It’s become a _thing_. You dust a bit on your knees.”

“To what point?” Belle asked.

Ruby shrugged. “It draws attention to the fact that they’re bare.”

“…I intend on more than my knees being bare on my wedding night, Ruby.”

“Oh, that’s not-” Ruby rolled her eyes. “It’s seduction, Belle! You dust some on your knees above your stockings, so when he gets a peek when your dress comes up…” She gave Belle a meaningful look.

“He’s seen my bare knees. Quite a few times, matter of fact.” Belle pressed her lips together over her grin.

“If you don’t want it,” Ruby began, reaching for the little gilded box.

Belle held it away. “I didn’t say I didn’t want it.”

“That’s what I thought,” her friend said with a smirk. “I’d better go find Victor. Last I saw him, he was discussing the finer points of abdominal tumor removal with your father.”

“Well, that explains why Papa was looking a bit queasy.” Belle turned to place the compact in the hallway table drawer. She looped her arm through Ruby’s and headed back to the party.

Neal was chattering and gesticulating excitedly to David and Lieutenant Hargreaves, standing just where his father had been when she left the parlor. Rummond, however, was nowhere to be seen. She let go of Ruby’s arm and walked over to stand behind Neal, smoothing his hair. Making a wide gesture with his arms, he leaned back against her legs.

“And some bats sing like birds!” he told them with every ounce of gravity that he could express.

“I didn’t know that,” David said, glancing up at Belle with a grin. “That’s very interesting.”

Belle let her hands rest in front of Neal, one atop the other on his chest. “Did Rummond have to step away?”

“Couple minutes ago,” the Lieutenant said. “He looked a bit off, but he turned down company.”

“There was a bit of noise that unsettled him,” David told her quietly.

“Is Papa all right?” Neal asked, tilting his head back to look up at her.

“He is. He’s all right, darling.” She pinched the inside of her lower lip between her front teeth before asking the two men, “Did you see which way he went?”

David pointed to the parlor door. “Turned right when he left.”

Belle gave Neal’s chest a pat and left him talking with Lieutenant Hargreaves about the fact that bats had fingers inside their wings as she went to find Rummond. There weren’t a great many possibilities, if he’d continued right. His choices off that piece of hallway would be limited to the dining room, kitchen, or the back garden. 

She pulled back the curtain on the window next to the door enough to peer out, and she found him sitting on the patio bench, looking out on the garden. He didn’t appear agitated or upset. She went out, and the music and voices behind her were cut off with the click of the door shutting.

“Rum, sweetheart? Are you all right?”

He looked up at her, and though she saw the remnants of anxiety around his eyes, the rest of him seemed calm. He held a hand out and she placed hers in it.

“I’m all right,” he said, drawing her over to sit next to him. “I needed a few minutes.”

“Perhaps I was too quick about the engagement party? I should have waited.” Belle lifted her unheld hand, brushing back the hair at his temple with her fingertips. “Or invited fewer guests.”

“No.” Rummond brought her hand up, kissing her fingers. “The party is better than I could have imagined.”

“I can turn the music down. Or off. Or if the noise is too much, it’s perfectly fine if you wanted to step away for the night. Everyone would understand,” she said, looking for solutions.

“The music is lovely just as it is. I want to go back. I was having a nice time,” he assured her. “I only needed some air.”

“What happened?” she asked gently.

“Nothing terrible or unexpected.” He shook his head. “Something triggered a bit of a… an event. One of those ridiculous phantom smells. It’s passed.”

Belle rested her hand at the back of his neck. The contact and the warmth of her finished settling his insides. “Do you want me to ask Dr. Hopper to come out?”

He chuckled softly over her insistence, running his thumb in short strokes over her knuckles. “Absolutely not. The man isn’t here to work, and I’m right as rain, love. I am.”

She turned a little so that she didn’t perch at the edge of the bench, dropping her hand to her lap and tucking herself into his side. If he meant to return to the party, she would simply sit with him until he was ready. “Neal is providing a bit of entertainment.”

“Is he, now?”

“Oh, yes. He’s honing his skills as a conversationalist on David and Jefferson. They were playing right along when I left him.”

Rummond smiled. His son had likely spoken to every guest twice since they’d begun to arrive. He was only glad that no one seemed bothered. “He’ll wear himself out before dinner, at this rate.”

A small lizard ran along the edge of the patio, pausing for a second to eye the two of them. “Oops,” Belle said, amused. She pointed it out to Rummond before it darted into the grass. “Neal hasn’t spirited them all away after all.”

He watched the grass move until the lizard found its way. “I’d’ve thought two rounds would collect them. He’s certainly spent enough time searching to have cleaned them out.”

Belle laughed. She’d seen one of Neal’s evenings in the garden collecting them for a big move. “I’m not squeamish about lizards and that sort of thing, you know, but it’s rather startling to watch a dozen go scuttling from the box and into our garden.”

“He worries he might miss moving some part of their families.” Rummond turned his hand so that the pad of his thumb stroked against her palm.

She gave a soft, sympathetic click of her tongue. “Of course he does, bless him.”

“The affection he has for those things. He tends them as though they can’t feed themselves. I haven’t the heart to tell him that they don’t care a lick for cracker crumbs,” he said, and Belle giggled next to him. “And it’s his favorite strip in the zoetrope, the gecko that crawls along. You chose well, there.”

“Oh, that was a happy accident. I hadn’t realized there was a lizard in the mix.” She grinned, happy that he enjoyed his present so.

Neal had turned seven on the first of May, and they’d had a small party, just the family. She wanted to have something a bit bigger next year. She’d given the zoetrope to him for his birthday. It had come with a little case holding rolls of paper picture strips, as well as a few blank strips so that he could try his hand at making his own. His father had gotten him a bicycle, and he’d been riding it along the little stone walking paths at the house, where the lawn awaited in the event that he tipped over. She and Rummond had petted and patched up a fair few skinned knees, anyway, and Neal had a dedicated pair of scuffed trousers for bicycling practice.

There was a little thump at the door just before it opened, and Neal poked his head out. He joined them upon finding them there. “Where did you go?” he asked as he walked over. He climbed into Belle’s lap, sitting so that he leaned back against her, his legs hanging off either side. He wiggled his feet.

“We needed quiet for just a little while,” Rummond replied, giving his son’s knee a solid pat. 

“There’s lots of people and lots of noise,” Neal agreed.

Belle looked to Rummond and she gave Neal a squeeze with her free arm. It was always a wonder to her, the things that Neal understood, the way that he broke them down so simply. “We’ll go back in soon,” she said.

In the few minutes since she’d found Rummond on the patio, it had gotten darker out. The dusk blue of the sky had grown deeper, and stars had just begun to wink into view higher up. She looked forward to such a sight from their own garden patio.

“Rum, what do you think of an autumn wedding?” she asked with what she felt was a failed attempt at nonchalance.

He looked to her. “Wouldn’t that be a rather short engagement?”

“It looks as though I care terribly, doesn’t it?” Belle gave him a mischievous look, wrinkling her nose. “It would be around the same length as Ruby and Dr. Whale’s. Nothing scandalously quick. I was thinking perhaps early September?”

Rummond ducked his head a little. She sounded anxious to get their life together started, and he felt precisely the same.

“Is September soon?” Neal asked, tilting his head back to look up at them.

“Not soon enough,” Belle said with a grin. “But fairly soon.”

“Good!” Neal squeaked, wriggling happily.

A series of insistent taps came at the window glas, and all three of them turned to look. There stood Mrs. Potts, giving a sharp beckoning gesture that there was no mistaking. They’d been away too long. It was the worst drawback of hosting a party of any sort, Belle thought - the hosts couldn’t step out of the hubbub without being conspicuous. 

“Go and tell Mrs. Potts that we’ll be in directly,” Rummond told his son.

Neal slid down and trotted over to the door, pushing it open only enough to slip back into the house. “Papa said to say they’ll be in dear-ec-ly,” they heard him inform Mrs. Potts before the door closed again.

“An autumn wedding, then,” Rummond said, rocking their hands back and forth on his thigh.

Belle beamed and leant in close to kiss him. She laid her hand in the curve between his neck and shoulder, sliding it up until she touched his skin. The bit of contact had him leaning into her in return, and she thrilled in his spark of enthusiasm.

Rummond hummed with contentment. He smiled as she rubbed her nose against his when they parted, and he leaned to touch his forehead to hers.

“Early September, did you say?” he asked, and the slight burr to his voice sent warmth through her. “How early do you think?”

“Mm, let’s see…” She looked up in concentration and counted forward, her lips moving as she figured from week to week. “The first Saturday in September falls on the fourth.”

“That sounds just right. If it’s all right for you?”

“The house will be ready by then?”

He gave a short wag of his head. “I’ll talk to the contractors. Hire more workers if need be. It’ll be ready.”

Belle’s stomach flipped, and she couldn’t help the delighted laugh that escaped her. “We’ve a date.”

“We’ll have to start planning, make certain everything falls in the proper time,” he told her.

“I’ll ask Ruby and Mrs. Lucas to dinner some night next week, and we’ll interrogate them about wedding plans,” she said, giving an excited squirm of her own.

Ruby’s wedding had taken place just about a fortnight previous, and she’d barely returned from her honeymoon in time for their party. Thankfully, Nurse Jezek and Nurse Boyd had both returned before Ruby left. They’d made up for her friend’s absence - as far as picking up the work, at least.

“I want to help,” Rummond said, though it sounded more akin to question than statement. “I want a hand in the planning.”

“You can have as many hands in as you like,” Belle said, smiling over at him in the failing light. She tilted her watch up to catch what little there was left. It was nearing time for dinner to be served. “When we venture back into the fray, let’s seed a few people with the news we’ve set a date?” she suggested, eager for the top-up of happiness that would spread with telling. “No hurry to return. I only mean when.”

He gave her a bright smile in answer and kissed her again. She curled her hand at the back of his neck this time, threading her fingers into his hair as if to hold him precisely where he was until she’d had her fill. After a few moments and as many kisses to fill them, she leaned back from him with the soft sound of their lips parting.

“A few more minutes in the fresh air,” Rummond said, slipping his arm around her. His heart felt as though it grew to fill the full space of his ribcage when she leaned into his side.

“A few more minutes,” Belle agreed, and she rested her head against his shoulder. “And then we’ll go and set the party afire again.”

  


~* the end *~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visual aid:  
> [Belle’s engagement party dress](https://cfc.polyvoreimg.com/cgi/img-set/.sig/9I7t6tRPpL8jOXsx0UyxQ/cid/214480672/id/Nj9YTkWI5xGYzd-nWc0rKw/size/c600x762.jpg)
> 
>   _And a few things I'd like to say:_
> 
> _1) THANK YOU!! It’s been so rewarding to work on this project over the last two and a half years, receiving your comments and prompts, and seeing you guys rooting for these Floofy dorks. THANK YOU SO, SO MUCH!!_
> 
> _2) I’m going to take a couple of weeks’ break (because 150 chapters straight, holy crap), and then I’ll be back to work on the wedding/honeymoon thing for them._
> 
> _3) This is nowhere near the end of this ‘verse. I have a great big list of one-shots to write for BtFtB, and as long as you guys are prompting and Rummond and Belle live in my head, I figure I’ll occasionally be writing them forever. If you don’t get notifications for my AO3 account, consider doing that from the main list of works so that you don’t miss any, if you want to._
> 
> _4) I plan to eventually change some things (like names and fandom-specific details) and self-publish BtFtB as a set of three books. Because 550k words are a bit too much to even split in half, it turns out. When that happens, since some of you have asked me to let you know, I’ll post a ‘chapter’ on the end of the fic with information so notifications will go out. And I won’t be taking the fic down unless an actual publisher somehow showed interest. Which has about the same chances of me winning the lottery twice, so y’know._
> 
> _5) If you want to send in a prompt for the wedding/honeymoon fic, now’s the time!_

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by a [WWI propaganda poster](https://31.media.tumblr.com/55d30fec58d62122874120ecf316c637/tumblr_inline_ndrz86GxfU1rjn473.png).
> 
> [Timeline](http://ishtarelisheba.tumblr.com/post/118172637524/btftb-timeline) (for events before and in-story).


End file.
